Complex
by WitchGirl
Summary: Nick falls victim to a pretty face. Without him, his friends just fall. Greg and Sara, with Riley's assistance, are determined to bring him back. But does Nick want to be found? A tale of abuse, obsession, abduction and sympathy.
1. Green Eyed Girl

Complex

**Summary:** Criminals are more than the crimes they commit. A rollercoaster of abuse, obsession, abduction and sympathy.

**Author's Note:** There are some minor alterations that I made to the CSI universe, but they're so slight they don't even matter. I would have called it an AU, but "AU" is the wrong way to describe it. I just wondered what sort of job Riley Adams might have had before she came to Las Vegas. I know she transferred from St. Louis, presumably as a CSI/former cop, but, well, you won't see her in the same vocation in this story.

Also, while I normally update daily or once every other day, this fic will be updated weekly on Saturdays or Sundays on account of my speed in writing it. I'm posting this a little earlier than I normally would, hopefully as an incentive to finish it. I'm afraid my CSI muse is drying up. This is my attempt to keep it alive. Please be patient with me. Next chapter will definitely be up within two weeks time. Cheers.

**Time Line:** Middle-to-end of season six, potentially right after Rashomama. Why? Because Rashomama is a great episode.

Chapter One: Green-Eyed Girl

Alexa King sat on a bus and stared at her reflection in the window. She saw grassy green eyes and a sharp nose above chapped lips that were a red hue of beige. Stringy yellow platinum hair framed her features, but her focus was on her eyes, her own eyes. She didn't try to see the darkness outside the window. There was nothing out there that she hadn't seen before. She was trying to see the gold flecks her father said lived in her eyes. But, like most people who looked at Alexa's face, her eyes were soon drawn to the scar that traveled from just beneath the corner of her left eye down to her chin. She reached up and touched it gingerly, as if it were still fresh.

The bus stopped. People got on, people got off, but Alexa didn't notice. Someone sat down beside her, but she wasn't interested.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

Reluctantly, she tugged her eyes away from the window and gasped when they fell upon him. He was absolutely beautiful. Smooth lips twitched up into a charming grin. His brown eyes were different from hers, and she swore she saw gold in them. His features were rugged, masculine, but he spoke kindly. He was a gentleman.

She returned his smile, blushing slightly, and sweetly answered, "Yes?"

"I think this fell out of your purse?"

She blinked at him, then looked at the chapstick he held in his hands. She didn't recognize it at first, but it was her brand, and she thought it was possible that it had rolled out of her purse. Slightly confused, she said, "Yes… thank you," and took the chapstick from him. She used it immediately and then dropped it back in her purse.

"Your eyes are the prettiest shade of green," he said, sounding so sincere.

Her heart fluttered. "You're sweet…" She shrugged her left shoulder and smiled coyly.

"Where is a lovely girl like you headed on a dreary night like this?" he asked. "You aren't up to no good, are you?"

"No…" she said. "Just heading home after work." She knew that he couldn't seriously be interested in her. He saw the scar that crossed her face as clearly as everyone else.

Something seemed to occur to him. "I'm sorry, ma'am, where are my manners?" He held out a hand. "My name is Lincoln Meyer. Everyone just calls me Link, though."

She took it, but hesitated with her name. "Why are you so interested in me, Mr. Meyer?"

He seemed surprised by the question. "I'm sorry if I'm coming on too strong, ma'am, I don't mean to scare you. I know how this looks. A guy like me chatting up a young lady like yourself, but I mean no harm, I assure you. I'm from Missouri, a little place called Union, and I'm used to people being friendly and polite. In a big city like Vegas, I can see how that sort of behavior is suspicious." He laughed and she cautiously joined in. "If you like, you can give me a fake name. I won't ask for your number, or anything. Just small town curiosity."

She made a quick decision. "My name is Alexa," she said.

"Well, Miss Alexa, your voice is cute as a button, just like the rest of you," said Link. He looked out the window behind her, then up at the bus driver. Alexa stood up.

"This is my stop," she said, offering Link another smile.

"How about that, mine's just up the road," Link said. "Do you live far from here?"

"Oh… it's only a few blocks," she said as the bus rolled to a stop. He stood to let her out. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Meyer."

"It's raining something fierce out there," said Link, grabbing her arm before she went down the steps. "And a dark street at this hour is no place for a lady."

"I manage," she said.

"Please, I insist on walking you home."

"Oh, oh, no, that's fine…" she tried to say.

She got off the bus and he followed. She was instantly soaked and so was he. He lifted a newspaper above his head and grinned at her from beneath it, and she was immediately warm, despite the rain.

"I can give you my card, to prove my identity," he said, handing it to her. She looked at it, and he held the newspaper over her head instead. It read, _Lincoln Meyer, St Louis Public Defenders Office_.

She was impressed. "You're a lawyer?"

"Well, I try," he said, modestly. He offered her his arm.

"I guess I can trust a lawyer," she said, gladly taking it.

"I think you're the first and last person I will ever hear say that," Link said with his flashy grin.

She returned the expression. "I think you're right."

* * *

Finley Park was alive with activity during the day. It was a popular spot for parents and nannies, due to the lure of the interactive leaping fountain, particularly on hot summer days in Vegas. The paved bike trail attracted the athletes and the wide off-leash area drew in animal lovers from across the city. But at night, when the fountain was off and the off-leash area was closed, the park became a very different place. More than once, the sun had risen at midnight in the form of floodlights and flashlights, and teams of experts spilled into its vast acres, analyzing the scenes of crimes. The most common were thefts, assaults and rapes off of the winding bike trail, which was lined with trees and bushes and any number of nooks and crannies for monsters to dwell.

Unfortunately for Finley, it was just one of those nights.

Nick Stokes beat back the bushes and ducked under the yellow tape with Greg on his heels. He was anxious to prove himself, after getting chewed out by Ecklie about proper protocol when taking evidence from a crime scene. He was mildly surprised that the whole issue seemed to slide off of Greg and Sara's backs so easily. Neither one of them seemed bothered by the event at all. Then again, it had been _his_ car that had been stolen. Things were going to go right this time around.

Sara was already there, crouched over the body and her head cocked to the side in thought. Brass was off to the side by the trees, talking on the phone.

Nick called out her name and she looked up. He waved. "What's the deal?"

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "It's not good. This is just like the one I saw two weeks ago. Brass is arguing with the chief about whether or not we have a serial killer."

"What do you mean 'just like'?" Greg asked. "What's the same?"

"The body was found wrapped in this sheet." She gestured to the white sheet beneath the victim, smeared with blood. She then pointed very specifically to a laceration on the face. "The last victim had this exact same wound. See how it starts, near the left temple and ends at the chin."

"The sheet's not unusual," said Nick, crouching down and looking the body up and down. "And there are all sorts of ways that people's faces get cut up."

"Look closer," Sara insisted.

He and Greg exchanged looks but obliged. The wound had been stitched up and had begun to heal.

"The other vic was stitched up just like this one."

"That's a little weird," Greg agreed.

"There's more," Sara said. "The burn on the chest, what does it look like to you?"

Greg frowned and tried to get a closer look, but Sara answered her own question.

"It's an iron. As in, what you use to get the wrinkles out of your shirts."

"Don't worry about it, Greg," Nick said with a patronizing smile. "We've seen your clothes. You can't recognize the mark an iron leaves when you've never seen one."

Greg flashed him an irritated grin. "At least I know how to lock my car."

Nick's smirk vanished. He turned back to the task at hand. "What else have you got, Sara?"

She sat quietly as she stared at the body, her brow twisted in deep thought. "I don't like this."

"You mean Nick's bad jokes?" Greg asked.

"What?" She blinked at him. "No. The scar, the burn, the ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, the bruises… and look – the even haircut. And look at these…" She held up a pair of cracked glasses.

"Vic was near-sighted, so what?" Nick shrugged.

"Except that he wasn't," Sara explained. She handed Nick a wallet. "Look at his ID."

Nick's lip stuck out as he considered it. "Could belong to the perp."

"He was wearing them," Sara said. "The last victim had glasses, too. Very specific victim profile if you ask me."

"Right down to the very last scar," Greg said, kneeling by the face. "What do you think this guy's game is?"

"I don't know…" Sara muttered. There was something else in her voice. "But there's something else about this that's bugging me and I can't place it. Something familiar about his face that makes me –"

"Like hell you are!" someone shouted from behind them.

Nick frowned, looking over his shoulder. "What's up over there?"

Greg rose to his feet. "I'll check it out," he said as he strode over to the crime scene tape. Brass was in a heated discussion with a blonde women in a navy peacoat. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.

"… may be in your backyard, but he's _our_ public defender," she was saying to Brass.

"How did you even hear about this?" Brass asked. "We just found out who he was an hour ago."

She opened her mouth to reply when she noticed Greg standing there watching them. Her eyebrows shot up. "And what do _you_ want?" she asked impatiently.

Brass looked behind him and noticed Greg, then turned back to the woman. "You can't talk to him like that, he's my CSI."

Greg looked at Brass, and thought he should explain. But the woman just closed her eyes and her shook her head quickly. "Whatever, look, just give me access. This is my jurisdiction."

"Because he's from Missouri?" Brass scoffed.

"Because he was my _friend_," she said.

This shut Brass up.

The woman looked down, then back up again, all business. "We heard about the other murder two weeks ago. We thought it might match an unsolved case from St. Louis. It's why I came here."

"And you brought a lawyer with you?" Brass asked.

"Link wasn't here for that," she said. "He was visiting his kids. They live here with his ex-wife. But he was supposed to pick me up from the airport today and he stood me up."

"That still doesn't explain how you found out he was our 419," Brass pointed out.

She sighed. "I went to the station to talk to _you_ about the James Sherman case, and they told me you were here. An officer gave me a ride. I heard Link's name on his scanner."

Brass looked about to say something, but Greg cut him off. "You mean you just found out that your friend was dead on your way over here?"

She nodded. "Twenty minutes ago," she said.

Greg stared at her. Her eyes were dry. "You look like you're handling it well."

She scowled. "Don't you have evidence to collect, CSI?"

Nick and Sara approached. Sara looked strangely withdrawn. "Nope, actually," Nick said, having overheard the woman. "We're done here." He looked at Brass. "Who's she?"

She stood up straight and flashed a badge. "Detective Riley Adams. St. Louis PD."

Sara nodded. "The lawyer," she said, quietly. "He has a Missouri license."

The detective said nothing. She turned to Brass. "Can you fill me in on the Sherman case?"

Brass hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yeah," he agreed. "Sure." He looked over his shoulder. "While we're here, do you want to see the—"

"No."

Greg wasn't sure, but he thought he saw her brave façade waver.

Brass nodded. "I think that's a smart decision," he confessed.

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Because most people think that they _do_ want to see it."

She looked down, then back up again. "And it's years of watching them that's taught me that I don't." She looked somewhere over Brass's shoulder. "No, I'd rather remember him how he was, if that's OK."

"Greg, you coming?"

He blinked and looked at Nick, who was already by the car with Sara, waiting for him. He nodded at them, then turned back to Riley and held out his hand.

"It was nice to meet you," he said.

She looked down at his hand, then up at Greg. "What's your name again, CSI?"

Greg pointed to the name on his vest. "Greg Sanders."

The corners of her lips twitched and she almost smiled. She took his hand. "Yeah, the pleasure's all mine," she said. And Greg ran off after Sara and Nick.

* * *

She was weeping as she pulled him over the concrete in her little red wagon. He was too big to carry on her own, but also too big to fit in the wagon, so his feet hung over the end, dragging on the trail along with the sheet she had so carefully wrapped him in. She found an old thick-trunked sycamore towering over the trail and came to a stop, looking up at it as if it were the face of God.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist before dropping the handle to the wagon and looking back at her precious cargo. She crouched down and put one hand in the crook of his knees and the other supporting his back before hoisting him up, laying him at the foot of the tree like a sacrifice. In the transfer from wagon to resting place, the sheet fell away, and his glassy black eyes stared up at her. She took a sharp breath and stumbled backwards, staring back at them in turn.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and knelt down next to him. She took the glasses that hung from the neck of her green tanktop and placed them gingerly on his face. From those frames, he looked like more of who he should have been, and she relaxed and exhaled a sigh of relief. Still, she took the sheet and folded it over his frozen face, hoping it would never see the light of day again, for his sake as much as her own.

She closed her eyes and uttered a silent prayer to the tree, then rose to her feet. As she looked down at him, she felt into the pocket of her jean shorts and pulled out a card. _Lincoln Meyer, St Louis Public Defenders Office_. She frowned in thought, crumpled it in her fist, and tossed it on the ground, before making the journey back to her familiar bus stop.

She briefly wondered what she was having for dinner, and if she'd meet a kindly gentleman on the way home.


	2. Missing

**Author's Note:** Early update because I felt comfortable being two chapters ahead. Latest possible update will be next Saturday, but high chance I'll get restless and post beforehand. Also, forgot to mention last time, thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for taking time out of her day and doing me a solid by betaing this fic.

Chapter Two: Missing

Riley Adams drummed her fingers on her knee as she waited in Jim Brass's office for him to return from the crime lab. She repeatedly checked her watch, wondering if she should start going over the witness statements on her own.

Finally, she heard his door open and close as he entered in a whirlwind.

"Sorry that took so long," he said, having a seat at his desk. "Had to get debriefed." He shuffled a few papers on his desk.

"You get anything useful?"

He shrugged. "Not exactly. They still need to process the prints and see about the sheet he was wrapped in. And they can't figure out what made some of his bruises yet, or COD, Doc Robbins is backed up with some dayshift cases—"

"So basically, you got nothing," she said. "Took you an hour to be debriefed on _that_?"

He blinked at her. "Well, Sara was explaining everything that they had catalogued, and I had Nick crosscheck some of the results from the Sherman case. And then Greg had to borrow money for a pizza, but I just had a five in my wallet, so Nick—"

"You close with all the crime scene guys, or just those three?" Riley asked. "From what I hear around the station, you spend half your time palling around with them. Detective Vega says—"

"Don't listen to Sam Vega, he's a gossip," Brass said dismissively. She opened her mouth to retort when Brass cut her off. "And Vartann is still bitter because I took his Rolex at the poker game last week."

Riley frowned. "Still, you do know you're a detective, not a scientist, right?"

"You say that like detectives are the cool kids and scientists are the geeks," Brass said. "I wasn't aware that the St. Louis precinct was so cliquish."

Riley rolled her eyes. "I just don't get it, is all. In St. Louis, the crime scene techs _are_ geeks, or… more introverted… No, antisocial is a better word. They only talk to you when they have to, and it's always curt and to the point. They're also a pain in the ass. They've stopped me from getting a warrant countless times because _they_ are too backed up to run my DNA evidence until eight to ten weeks _after_ I've submitted it, and then when they finally _do_ run it, they act like they did me a favor, and it's because of _them_ that we broke the case."

"None of them would have the last name Hodges by any chance, would they?"

"I'm sorry?"  
"Never mind." Brass leaned back in his chair. "You can't stereotype the CSIs. They're just doing their jobs, and my guys do theirs damn well."

Riley pursed her lips, then said, very quickly, "Vartann said you used to be one."

A smile stretched across Brass's features. "It's a beautiful Cinderella story about how a lowly scientist geek climbed the ladder of success to be accepted by the shiny happy cool kids. Remind me to tell it to you sometime."

"Did you at least bring the Sherman file?"

"Of course I did, what am I, incompetent?" She was silent as he pulled out the folder, and he glared at her. "Well, don't rush to deny it."

"I thought that was rhetorical," she said.

Brass grumbled as he opened up the file and slid it across the desk to Riley. She picked up a crime scene photo of the body and examined it.

"And you say that L-Link" —she hesitated only once— "had the same scars? Same glasses?"

Brass nodded. His brow furrowed and he looked as if he were trying to remember something.

"Sara said something…" he began. "There was something familiar about the victims to her. She couldn't place it." He reached across the table and took the file, looking at the man in the image, trying to imagine how he would have looked alive. He looked at the haircut and the jaw line, as well as the eyes and nose, then his eyes went to the build of the body.

"Do you have a picture of Link?"

Riley began shaking her head, then stopped. She pulled out her cell phone and pulled something up before handing it to Brass. Lincoln Meyer was grinning bashfully as he tried to hide from the camera and someone held a birthday hat over his head. Riley was blowing a blowout in his ear in the corner of the picture, a smirk on her own face, but she wasn't the focus.

"I took that on his birthday last month," she said. "At his office surprise party."

"Here _you_ are," Brass mumbled as he looked at the picture, "criticizing _me_ for befriending CSIs when you hang out with defense attorneys." He glanced up with a twitch of a smile. "Isn't that a conflict of interest? How many guys have you tried to put away that he set free?"

"Link wasn't like that," Riley said. "He never defended any perp I collared. His specialty was homeless guys and prostitutes… Society's trash. The ones no one else really cares enough about to _try_ and defend, but Link, ha, well…" Riley smiled fondly as she remembered him. "He's the other half of the justice we serve, Jim."

Link's hair was longer than it was when he'd died, and rather unkempt. Brass couldn't help but be reminded of Greg's current hairstyle, only a much darker shade of brown.

"What's your background?" Brass mumbled, eyes still on the picture.

"I majored in Art History," Riley offered.

"That's not what I—" He looked up at her. "_Really_?"

She shrugged. "What did you mean?"

"I need a profiler," Brass explained.

"Oh," Riley said. "I went to that workshop."

Brass cocked an eyebrow. "A single training workshop was not what I had in mind."

But Riley smirked at him as she pulled James Sherman's file to her and took a look. "Your perp is trying to recapture something from his past," she explained. "Maybe even himself, at a younger age, or someone close to him like a relative or lover. Which means your perp is most likely Caucasian, thirty to fifty, with an intense need to make everything perfect verging on, or perhaps even being obsessive compulsive."

"All things I could have told you with my eyes closed," Brass commented. "What's his—"

"His trigger is a realization that what he has created is _not_ perfect," Riley went on. "That's what makes him kill them. He doesn't want to, at first. He keeps them alive for… Let me see Sherman's photos again." Brass obliged and she looked them over. "Three to five days." She looked up. Brass seemed mildly impressed. "Note the discoloration around the scar on his cheek, how it's been healing? It's about three to five days old. Clearly whoever he's trying to replicate had that same scar." She flipped through the file. "Perp is disconnected from reality, possibly dissociative. He'll have a normal, go-nowhere job to pay the bills, and his boss will describe him as punctual and efficient, never causing trouble. He'll seem distant to some, because he'll be detached, until he's with his victims, which brings up…" She squinted at the photo again, then smiled, almost sadly. "Affection. Then anger. Probably the only time he feels anything is with them."

She handed the file back to him. "That good enough?"

"You're very observant," Brass noted.

"My folks were psychiatrists," she said. "That profiling workshop was preceded by an entire childhood of my father explaining to me the psychology of dangerous criminals so that I as a six year old would know to avoid them. I ran away screaming 'Molester! Molester!' from the guy in the ice cream truck because he gave me an extra scoop for free."

"You must have been a pistol as a child," said Brass.

"Also? I have a third case I've been working off of." She reached into her messenger bag and pulled it out. "Had my partner fax it over from St. Louis." Brass opened it up and looked through it as Riley continued. "But there's not much more with Dean Rogan than the others. Still, note the scar, and the iron burn. Very similar to Sherman and Link."

"All of these vics have similar builds and facial features…" Brass said.

"Except Rogan," Riley pointed out. "Perp dyed his hair. He was blond."

"So we're guessing Rogan is the first victim," Brass said.

Riley nodded. "I don't think this guy has been a killer his whole life," she said. "That first kill was sloppy… fingerprints all over. Problem is, we had nothing to compare it to. And no DNA."

"So why's he killing now?" Brass asked.

"I think he knew Rogan," Riley said. "Personally. He shares similar features to the others – broad shoulders, strong jaw – But the hair and eyes? Way different. And our perfectionist is so detail-oriented…" She pointed at a close-up of Dean Rogan's eye. "He made him wear colored contacts." Riley leaned back in her chair. "Additionally, Dean Rogan was, by his girlfriend's own admission, notoriously promiscuous."

"You thinking jealous boyfriend of one of his mistresses?"

"Jealous boyfriend, maybe," Riley conceded, "but not of his mistresses." She smirked. "Dean Rogan was also an open bisexual."

"You mentioned that our killer is trying to remake a relative or lover earlier," Brass said. "So we leaning more towards… lover?"

"That's my theory," Riley said. "But, you know, I only had the one workshop."

Brass smiled at her. "You know what, Adams, I think we make a good—"

He was interrupted by his own phone. Closing his eyes, he quickly answered it. "Jim Brass… Uh huh..."

Riley began packing her messenger bag, ready to call it a day. Thoughts of Link swirled in her mind and she needed time to process them, lest they come out at the wrong moment. She was only half listening to Brass's conversation with whoever was on the phone.

"No, why?... Right…" Brass frowned and gestured at Riley to wait, which she did. Then, the corners of his lips turned downward as he leaned on his desk. "Wait. What do you mean '_missing'_?"

* * *

_Before._

* * *

Alexa had been on her way back into work because she couldn't sleep, so she cut through Finley Park, which was shorter than going around the block from the bus stop. She squinted as the floodlights came into view and wondered why it was so bright in the park. The crime scene tape caught her morbid curiosity, and she crept up to it, mingling with the other curious citizens. She saw police officers and detectives with badges, but her interest was piqued by the brunette woman crouched over a white sheet one hundred yards away.

Alexa's heart began to sound like a bongo drum. _No,_ she thought to herself. _No, don't open that sheet!_

She tried to warn the woman, but it was no use. The sheet was pulled back and Alexa stumbled backwards, clutching at her chest as her heart tried to break free of her constricting ribcage. But still, she watched anyway, refusing to look directly at him as her stomach churned.

How could she have forgotten? _Lincoln Meyer, St. Louis Public Defenders Office_. The color drained from her face. _Oh Alexa, what have you done now?_

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly chilled in the sticky June night air. She watched the woman study the corpse for what seemed like hours. _That poor man_, she thought. _That poor, poor man_. And then, _I wonder what happened to him_.

Her heartbeat slowed and her attention was caught by an owl in a tree. She smiled at him as he cocked his head at her, looking at her with a pair of sideways yellow eyes. She mimicked him and hooted to see if he'd respond.

Movement on the other side of the crime scene attracted her focus and she saw him again, striding heroically across the landscape like an Adonis, and he was perfect, and pure, and he was her everything.

It was him this time. She was sure of it. She knew he couldn't be gone forever. She knew that he would come back to her, one day, and there he was. She sidestepped down the crime scene tape, following him as he approached the brunette. They spoke. And Alexa burned cold with jealousy as she clenched her sweaty fists.

_What's he doing? Doesn't he see me standing right here?_

Her breathing grew heavier as she exhaled through her nose like a dragon preparing to strike. _She_ was always in the way. No matter what, no matter where he was, _she_ always interfered. Alexa's only chance was to rescue him from her, make him remember his angel Alexa, make him remember where his loyalties were.

So she followed him.

* * *

"… and a crumpled up business card that we could pull a wrinkled print off of. It won't be perfect, but it'll be good enough for a partial." Sara handed Brass her inventory. "I think that's all right now, I'll keep you posted on whatever else we find."

He flipped through the file. "All looks pretty good to me."

Nick walked briskly into the room and handed over the Sherman file. "It's scary how identical they are. Definitely the same killer. But other than that, nothing new."

Greg poked his head into the break room. "Nick! Just the man I was looking for." He skipped inside, all but clicking his heels together as he approached his colleagues.

Nick cocked an eyebrow at him skeptically. "Why? What do you want?"

"Ten dollars," said Greg. "I'm sorta out of cash for pizza."

"You still owe me twenty," Nick complained.

"What's a few bucks between friends, huh?" Greg returned casually.

Nick looked to Brass and Sara for help. The latter considered it.

"Is there meat on it?" she asked.

"It's called the Carnivore Carnival," Greg told her. "So… maybe?"

"I'm out," she said with her classic tight-lipped smile, and she meant it literally as she headed to the door. She paused in the doorway, then turned around, feeling the need to offer an excuse. "Grissom wanted to talk to me about… something," she seemed to improvise, and then she was gone with no further explanation.

"That was rather abrupt," Greg said with a pout. "Even if she wasn't going to eat it, she could have at least donated a few cents to the cause, am I right?" He looked at Nick and Brass expectantly. The two men just stood there, Nick choosing to stare Greg down rather than cough up any cash.

"You always eat eighty percent of every pizza we ever order," Nick said stubbornly. "If I'm paying ten dollars, I'm eating ten dollars' _worth_."

Greg looked appalled. "I'm not sure, but I think you just called me fat. And I am offended."

But Nick wasn't to be fooled. "You aren't agreeing to my terms, Greg."

"Oh for the love of…" Brass pulled out his wallet and took out five dollars. "Here. And I don't even need a slice."

Greg clapped his hands together as if he were about to pray, then bowed respectfully to Brass. "You are a man among men, sensei," he said, before turning to Nick. "You pay five dollars, you get five dollars' worth," he promised.

"Fine," Nick said, reaching into his back pocket.

"Also, you pick it up," Greg replied.

Nick stopped. "What? I thought this was delivery!"

"Pick up is cheaper, no delivery charges," Greg explained. "Look, five dollars is a quarter of the price, that's _two_ whole slices of the extra-large. More than I'm generally willing to part with. So you pick it up, and you've earned your pizza." He held the money out to Nick.

Nick stared at him, his mouth agape, but snatched the money out of Greg's hand. "Unbelievable," he muttered as he made his way to the door. "Oh, and by the way," he threw over his shoulder, "you _are_ getting fat."

He heard Greg throw a nasty curse at him before the door shut behind him.

Scratching his head, he made his way outside of the lab and into the parking garage, fishing out his keys as he trotted down the concrete stairs. He was so busy thinking of other snide remarks he could make about Greg's peculiar and possibly unhealthy eating habits that he almost ran headlong into a pale young woman, skinny as a rail, who stopped him with a voice that reminded Nick of Cindy Lou Who.

"Excuse me?"

Nick halted, startled, as she materialized in front of him as if from nowhere. His expression softened as he smiled politely at her.

"Yes, ma'am, can I help you?" he said.

"I'm lost," she replied, with her chin timidly tilted down and her eyes looking up at him. "I need… to report a crime?" She spoke as if she wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not.

And then, Nick looked at her through the eyes of the criminalist he was, and the scar on her face caught his attention. He wanted to reach out and touch her arm, her shoulder, do _something_, because she looked terrified. "Ma'am, did someone do that to you?" he asked, nodding at the scar. It seemed like a stupid question after he said it, though.

"What?" she asked, breathless. Then, her fingers flew to her face. "Oh… Yes. I mean, sort of. I mean, not now."

"You look like the wind would carry you away," said Nick, forcing a laugh to make it seem less serious than he feared it was. "Have you been eating?"

She didn't seem to know how to answer this. Her eyes darted around as she wrapped her arms around herself. "It's very… closed in here. I don't like these walls. Can you take me outside?"

"I can take you upstairs to the station," Nick said. "You can file a report… Ma'am, has someone _been_ hurting you? That scar, you know, I saw one _just _like it today on a murder victim. If you were attacked—"

"I don't want to go upstairs," she said, firmly. "I just want to get out of here."

She was quivering like a string on a guitar and Nick resisted the urge to embrace her. Instead, he humored her, nodding slowly. "All right, all right," he said, his accent peeking through as he held out his hand. "Come on, I can take you to the garage."

At first, she looked startled that anyone would show her any kind of affection. Then, ever so cautiously, she took his hand. Her bony fingers were freezing as his own closed around them. Her hand felt so small, he almost thought he was escorting a child downstairs. She might have been, for all he knew. Her stature suggested that she could be a teenager, but the lines on her face and something strange about her eyes made her appear twenty years older than that.

The thought that someone could take a young, fragile girl like her and age her twenty years stirred a fire in his stomach and a long-dormant memory in his brain, and he unconsciously squeezed her hand, both out of fury and his own insecurities. She leaned against his arm, as if trying to draw the warmth out of him and into her body. Nick smiled as they entered the garage, and thought of all the things he would do to the person who had hurt her.

"Would you… take me home?" she whispered. "I took the bus here. All those people, looking at me? I can't stand it."

He turned to look at her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek and she looked up at him with sad green eyes. His thumb ran over her prominent cheek bone. He paused, before saying, "Sure, sweetheart, I'll take you home. And then, I'm going to come back here and find the bastard who has you scared out of your wits."

She smiled, and it just about lit up the whole garage. "You're going to rescue me," she whispered.

Nick led her to the passenger side and held the door open for her. She climbed inside the car as he closed the door behind her and she looked up at him gratefully through the window. It made Nick feel like he was doing something worthwhile, something meaningful. This is what he got into law enforcement _for_. Maybe, for once, he could help a living victim.

Maybe he could help the both of them.

* * *

The tap-tap-tapping sound of Greg's pen against the table had gone on for so long, Sara had to speak up.

"Would you _quit it_?" she snapped, taking a break from her veggie burger.

"Oh, easy for you to say!" Greg retorted. "You have _dinner_! Who'd have thought that _Grissom_ would be speedier with the food delivery? If I'd have known it'd take Nick forty-five minutes to pick up a pizza, I would have thrown in an order! DelFino's is only four blocks away, for Christ's sake!"

"Grissom didn't take an order," Sara said, then hesitated, letting the statement hang in the air a moment, before taking another bite of her burger.

"So what, do you have a standing arrangement where he just buys you veggie burgers every day?" Greg asked.

Sara smirked at him. "Something like that," she said, taking another bite.

There was a loud gurgling sound and Sara stopped chewing, cocking an eyebrow at Greg. "What was that?"

Greg's hands were on his stomach as he looked at it. "What do you think?" he snapped. "My stomach's _never_ gone this long without pizza. It's revolting."

"It really is," Sara said, with a disgusted expression. "How can you eat like that?"

"You mean and still keep my awesome manly figure?" Greg returned.

"Uh, sure, OK," Sara said.

Greg's smile vanished. "What's with everyone calling me fat today?"

Sara raised her index finger at him to make her point. "I _never_ said you were—"

And then his phone was ringing. Greg immediately snatched it up and answered without looking at caller ID. "Nick, where the hell are you?"

"Hey, this is Kyle calling from DelFino's pizza. You ordered a Carnivore Carnival and it's been sitting here for like an hour. You still want it? 'Cause we can throw it out."

"Son of a…" Greg scowled. "_Yes,_ I still want it. Is it still warm?"

"Well—"

"I don't care, I'll nuke it when I get back to work," Greg decided. "I'm on my way, thanks for calling." He hung up and seethed a moment before turning desperately to Sara. "You got twenty bucks I can borrow? Nick seems to have stolen my money and ran off into the sunset with some tramp."

But Sara looked concerned. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Greg groaned. "He never got my pizza."

She frowned. "And he's not back here, is he?"

"If he is, I'm kicking his ass."

"Wait…" Sara said slowly. "Wait, there's something really important, and it's been bugging me all day, and I'm _missing_ it."

"Yeah, I'm missing it too!" Greg said, pointing at his stomach. "Come on, give me money now, we can break the case after I eat."

She was still thinking even as she dug in her pockets for some cash. She gave it to Greg, and as their hands touched, it hit her like an anvil.

"Oh wow…" she said, her epiphany blossoming in her eyes.

Greg knew a breakthrough when he saw one, so he had to ask. "What? What do you know?"

"We are_ really_ stupid," she said, shaking her head.

"No, some of us are just really hungry."

"Greg," she said. "Think about the victims. They're identical."

"Yeah, so?"

"Same build, same eye color, same _hair_—"

"I really hope this conversation ends in a way to get me pizza."

"Broad shouldered, strong jaw line, muscles—"

"Both were manly men, talk dark and handsome, yeah, I know, I processed the bodies too, Sara," Greg said, frustrated. "What is your _point_?"

Sara folded her arms. "Sound like anyone you know?"

"Yeah, they look like—" Greg stopped. The color drained from his face. Without saying a word to Sara, he spun on his heel and marched over to the table, where he had left his phone, and dialed a number. He held it to his ear and waited as it rang once, twice, three times—

"_Hi, you've reached Nick Stokes. Leave a message_."

The beep sounded, but Greg didn't say anything. He slowly lowered the phone from his ear and hung up. He shook himself out of his stupor and looked at Sara, who hadn't moved.

"No," he said. "This is stupid, what are we doing?"

"Where's Nick, Greg?" Sara asked quietly.

"He's out at the casinos gambling with my pizza money!" Greg said, laughing it off. "Or, you know, home because he was tired. Nothing's going to happen to him." He laughed at her, as if she was being absolutely ridiculous. "Don't do that to me, Sara, you got me all worked up."

He pocketed his phone and made to leave.

"Where are you going?" Sara asked.

"To go pick up my pizza," Greg replied. "_Someone_ has to."

"Greg—"

"No, Sara, I gotta go," Greg said. "Just… When Nick gets back, tell him… Tell him to kiss my ass." He didn't let her say anything else because just like that he was gone.

Sara, feeling ill, waited alone in the break room. She brought out her own phone and dialed the same number Greg had done, and got the same results.

She rubbed her upper arm as she swiftly made her exit and pursued Grissom. She found him at his desk, filling out paperwork, which was an unusual sight as Grissom generally tried to unload all of that onto Catherine.

He seemed grateful for the distraction and looked up at Sara with a fond smile. "How was the burger?"

Sara couldn't return his smile. She could barely keep her veggie burger down. "Grissom… I think Nick's in trouble."


	3. Childish

**Author's Note**: Wavered between posting this either today (Thursday) or tomorrow. Once again, this counts for this week's update. LaughableBlackStorm is a saint for putting up with me. Oh yeah, and reviews are currency, so share the wealth.

Chapter 3: Childish

"You can pull over here," she said.

It was not lost on Nick that they were stopping just across the street from Finley Park. He turned to her with concerned eyes. "Please, let me drive you all the way home. I know you're nervous, but I don't feel right about leaving you on the corner in front of an auto shop."

She smiled at him. "This is my garage," she told him. "I own it. I feel safe here. Sometimes, I sleep here when I'm too scared to go home."

Nick couldn't say he wasn't surprised. His lips twitched into a proud smirk. "I would have never pegged you as a mechanic," he said.

"Cars are simple," she replied. "You diagnose the problem and you fix it, and you can always count on it to work. It's something that I can control."

Nick understood that desire. When something shakes up your life so completely, it's hard not to believe in fate, and that fate, for some reason, has it in for you. Finding something that you can be in complete control over is part of the process of taking your life back into your own hands again. "At least let me walk you to the door," he insisted.

She blushed, and her shoulders came up to her ears. "Such a gentleman," she whispered.

"Well, someone has to be," Nick said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

By the time he got to the other side of the car, she was standing there waiting for him. He offered her his arm. She looked at it, as if she wasn't sure what he was doing, then ever so cautiously wrapped her own arm around it, gripping it with her other hand as well as they walked to the door of the garage.

"This is me," she said. "You can go home now."

"Please, Alexa," Nick implored. "Tell me what happened to you."

Her green eyes were unfocussed and far away. "Good night, Nick Stokes," she said.

He knew a dismissal when he saw one. He sighed, but nodded. _You can't save everyone,_ he told himself. "Good night."

She slipped inside of the garage and he went back to his car and suddenly remembered Greg's pizza. DelFino's wasn't far from the crime lab, he could probably pick it up on the way and it would still be warm. He looked out across Finley Park, the trees looking foreboding in the morning darkness. He wondered why the city didn't get lights installed along the bike trail, considering the number of crimes that took place there.

He slid into his car and put the key in the ignition, but when he tried to start the car, the engine faltered. It continuously made the revving sound, but beyond that…

"Great," Nick muttered, popping the hood of his car to take a look at the problem. He got out and tried to check the engine. There seemed to be no obvious damage to anything, so he assumed it was just a dead battery. Although, it should have been charging on the way over, so why it would give out now, Nick wasn't sure. Out of his depth, he looked at the garage of which he was conveniently parked outside. _Glitter Gulch Auto Shop_. He figured that even if it _was_ a just a dead battery, he would need someone to help him jump it.

Reluctantly, he approached the door of the garage. He held his fist by the door, then hesitated. Realizing he had no other choice, he knocked three times.

It only took a minute for her to come to the door. Her face warmed at the sight of him, but she shook her head. "I told you, I don't have any crime to report," she said.

"I… I know, Alexa, but…" He sighed. "Look, I hate to ask but my car won't start. I'm thinking it might be the battery, but that doesn't really make sense as I only turned it off five minutes ago, and it should have been charging on the way over."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Did you check the alternator?" She strode right on past him. "I see it a lot. A short in a diode can cause a drain on your battery, which means it won't recharge when you drive."

He followed her back out to his car. "Really? But I just had it checked out last month and they didn't say anything was wrong with the alternator."

"They won't check it, unless you ask," Alexa said, opening up the hood. "They're supposed to with a routine maintenance, but people in this town are lazy. All they do is change the oil, rotate the tires, and glance under the hood… It could also be a parasitic electrical drain on the battery because the relay is sticking. They don't check that either." And then, she turned her head and smiled at him, her blonde hair falling in a curtain towards the engine. "Should have come to me last month. Probably wouldn't be having this problem now."

"I guess so," said Nick, thoroughly impressed.

He watched her tinker around under the hood for a moment, covering all her bases. After about five minutes she said, "All right, well… it doesn't seem to be the diodes. But it's late. So I'm just going to give her a jump and take her into my garage to check her out in the morning. I have a Chevy inside that we can use for the job. Here, come with me."

She headed back toward the garage and beckoned Nick to follow her inside. She led him through the office, and then the main garage area, which appeared to be empty tonight. She then took him into the back, where there was a much smaller garage, more like one belonging to a house. In the middle of it, an old Chevy pickup truck was idling. Alexa held the door for him and he went in first. He was just about to ask why the truck was already running when he heard the door close and a click behind him, drowning him in darkness except for the headlights of the truck. His first reaction was confusion. Where had she gone? And why had she closed the door? He gripped the handle and tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge. He knocked on it.

"Alexa? I think the door is stuck!"

There was no reply, and no noise from her side of the door. Nick looked around and began to panic. With the door closed, and the truck taking up a large portion of the room, the space felt _much_ smaller than it had seemed originally. Nick didn't do well in tight spaces. He pressed himself against the wall and began breathing deeply, starving for oxygen.

"Alexa? Where are you?" he called again, this time anxiety rattling his vocal cords. He followed the wall to the metal garage door and banged his fists against it, hoping to make more noise. He dropped to his knees and his fingers tried to find the edge. With help from the adrenaline flooding his system, if he could just get a good grip, he might be able to force it open. But instead, he found that a rubber door stop had been placed along the bottom of the garage door, sealing in the air with him.

Nick jumped up and backed away from the door, raking trembling hands through his hair as he took deeper breaths. He tried to control it, but he was panicking and couldn't help it. His brain was beginning to push against the front of his skull. His palms flew up to his forehead, as if he could push it back. All the while, he kept breathing. He felt along the wall for a light switch, or another door, until he ended up back where he had started. Fervently, his eyes turned to the Chevy.

His vision was beginning to blur and shake and he stumbled over to the truck, leaning his side against it for support. His eyes fell on the exhaust pipe.

"_Alexa!_"

He opened the driver's side door and crawled into the front seat, blinking and trying to focus his gaze. But his brain was clouding over, and attacking him from the inside out. He stopped as he held his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the pain at bay. When he opened his eyes again, he saw fireworks and spots dancing across his vision. He gripped the wheel tightly then hit the gas with all his might.

The truck collided with the garage door, but did not break it. It managed to cause a sizeable dent, though, and this gave Nick courage. He put the truck in reverse until he banged against the back wall, jarring him slightly in his seat. But he was quick to hit the gas again, driving the truck at the door like a battering ram. It still wouldn't budge, and Nick didn't have enough space to back up to get much traction or speed. Still, even a dull blade can cut deep if you hack at it enough, so Nick put the car into reverse.

His head was spinning and the metal wall in front of him blurred with the truck. He gave it one last try, before he was too exhausted to continue. He ripped the keys out of the ignition, shutting off the truck. He opened the door and fell onto his hands and knees onto the concrete, bile rising in his throat as the pain in his skull continued to mercilessly assault him. He tried to stand up, but wavered, and leaned his full back against the car, then his knees gave out and he slowly slid to the ground. He coughed and struggled for air, all the while knowing that breathing was not a good thing to do. The car was old, and in an enclosed space, and even though it was finally off, Nick had no way of knowing how long it had been on and contaminating his air supply.

He began to feel warm, then nauseous. He gripped his stomach and pulled his knees to his chest. "Alexa…"

His mouth was dry and his stomach churned like the ocean. The air around him turned to water and through the green haze he could see himself drowning. He lay down on his side, exhaustion overwhelming him as he closed his eyes.

They snapped open again. He couldn't fall asleep. But when he opened them, the green haze seemed to close in on him. He reached out to slash his way through it when his hand connected with plexiglass. He could see his own, insect bitten reflection in it as the ants crawled across his sallow skin, over his eyelids and into his ears. He couldn't be back there. He _wouldn't_ go back there. He groped around on the floor of his coffin, desperately seeking an exit, looking for a window, something, anything…

And then his fingers closed around the gun. Nick closed his eyes and brought it underneath his chin. He pulled the trigger. There was a dull click, and somewhere in the afterlife a door slammed and the rumbling of the earth faded away into silence.

* * *

Greg ate his pizza at DelFino's, unwilling to return to the lab with it. He refused to share with Nick, now that his friend had proven himself to be an unreliable pizza delivery person. And though Carnivore Carnival was his favorite of all DelFino's had to offer, the pizza tasted bland and cold, and he had a feeling it wasn't just because it had been sitting under a pizza warmer for an hour. But he tried not to think about it, because in his mind, there was no point in worrying if he wasn't even sure what he was worrying about.

Greg was certain that Nick was absolutely fine. For Sara to even _suggest_ that he might have fallen victim to some deranged serial killer was not only absurd, but insensitive. She knew very well what the entire team had gone through just the year before. Not to mention the number of people that lived in Las Vegas, several of whom, Greg was certain, could fit that same victim profile. So why even suggest it? _Lightning doesn't strike twice_, Greg reminded himself. And then, he looked at the cliché with the eyes of the scientist he was. He couldn't help it. _Actually, there's no law that says lightning _couldn't_ strike twice, in fact it often _does_ strike lightning rods and trees and towers multiple times… because they're the most vulnerable to the attack_.

Greg suddenly lost his appetite. He looked at the slice of pizza in his hand, then what remained in the box. There was still half a pizza left. He closed the lid and sighed, resolving to save the rest for Nick anyways, despite what a bad delivery person he'd turned out to be. Greg hated that nagging feeling in his gut. So he pulled out his phone and tried Nick's number again. And again, he just got the voicemail. He raked his hand through his hair and sighed.

The bell above the door chimed as it let in a new customer. Greg was hardly paying attention as he stared at the table. Someone slid into the chair across from him.

"Can I have some of that?" she asked.

He looked up at her and pushed the pizza towards her. "Help yourself."

"You must be in _bad_ shape," Riley said as she opened the box. "Jim Brass said you would eat the whole pizza, if left unattended."

"I'm not hungry," Greg replied.

Riley nodded. "Yeah, I know. Your friends are worried, too. But do you know what _they're_ doing right now?"

"Playing Parcheesi?"

"_Looking_ for him."

"Why?" Greg demanded. "It's not like he's missing or anything, he's just somewhere other than the places he's supposed to be. And anyways, they aren't allowed to do that! He has to be missing for at least twenty-four hours before we can even report it." He paused. "Not that I'm saying he's missing, because he's not."

"True, they would have to wait. Unless there's evidence of foul play," Riley reminded him. "Which, according to Sara and Dr. Grissom, there is."

"Well, she's wrong," Greg said. "We don't have evidence of that. The only evidence we have is that Nick is a lousy friend who flakes on his promises and called me fat."

Riley's brow furrowed. "You're not fat."

"I know, right?" Greg exclaimed. "I have a perfectly healthy body mass index."

Riley nodded. "So Nick was mad at you when he left?"

Greg's shoulders slumped. "No. Yes. Maybe…" Every word he said got quieter. "I don't know."

"That explains everything," Riley said.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Greg insisted. "He's not _abducted_, he's playing a cruel practical joke at _my_ expense."

"That's not what I meant," Riley explained. "I meant it explains your attitude."

Greg leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, closing her off. "I know what you're thinking. You think I feel guilty. Like him being gone is my fault. It isn't my fault. It's his fault. For being a jackass."

"What were the last words you said to him?" Riley asked.

Greg opened his mouth to tell her, then closed it. "I don't remember."

"Liar."

"Fine. But I don't know you well enough to answer that question."

She put her forearms on the table and leaned on them. "Something intimate or… personal?"

"Something inappropriate and impersonal," Greg explained. "And _not_ something that should be said in the presence of ladies."

She held a self-righteous smirk on her face. "You see? You don't _want_ it to be true, because if it _is_, then you'll never forgive yourself. You think that it's your fault because you sent Nick out to get pizza, and because you said something you probably didn't mean in the process."

Greg rose to his feet and looked at his watch. "My shift is over in an hour. So if you're done psychoanalyzing me—"

"No, it's not," Riley said, standing up as well. "Your shift's nowhere near over, Greg. We've gotta be in this for the long haul. I've already lost a friend tonight, I'm not going to stand by and watch you lose one, too."

"I can't _lose_ him because he hasn't _gone_ anywhere!" Greg insisted. "Why are you guys acting like this is such a big deal? He's going to come back and _laugh_ at us for acting so stupid."

"Nick's car is missing," Riley told him. "And the GPS on his phone is blinking somewhere in Finley Park."

"So maybe he went for a midnight jog."

"You know _very well_ what we found in Finley Park not four hours ago," Riley said coolly. "Nick fits the victim profile to a T. If we can find him within the next seventy-two hours, we can probably save his life."

This was news to Greg. He sat back down in his chair. "How do you know that?"

Riley pursed her lips. "The scars on our victims' cheeks all had time to heal. They were only a few days old. That gives us a timeline of three days to find him. Brass has already gotten the go-ahead from the sheriff to use every resource we have available to find him. We already have some black and whites on their way to Finley to find his phone. But Greg, your friends _need_ you. Will you help them?"

Greg didn't want it to be true. He didn't want it to happen all over again. He had seen Nick once on a video camera, ready to kill himself, and he wasn't sure if he could go through something like that again. But if he didn't face this now, he'd probably have to face something much worse later.

Slowly, he nodded, his eyes on the table. "Yeah. Yeah, OK."

They both rose to their feet. Riley took the pizza box. "Thanks for coming to your senses."

Greg blinked, then looked at her. "Yeah. Besides. This isn't about me."

* * *

Waking up was Nick's least favorite part of the day. Were it up to him, he'd curl up beneath the covers and stay there for as long as he wanted, without work or other responsibilities pulling him out of bed. But waking up with a hangover was by far the worst. The throbbing ache behind his skull, the nausea that writhed in his stomach like a sidewinder, and the stale taste of hops at the back of his throat, or even sometimes stomach acid, depending on exactly how the night before had gone. Yes, waking up with a hangover had to be the worst, or at least, that's what Nick used to believe. That was before he woke up after acute carbon monoxide poisoning.

He was groggier than he had ever been, and yet his body ached all over and refused to let him fall asleep. But the thing that really killed him was the continuous pain in the front of his skull. He felt like someone was drilling straight through his forehead and into his brain. He let out a grunt and turned his head to the side. With great effort, he forced his eyelids to move and took in his surroundings.

He was laying on a four poster bed in a windowless room with a dresser on the left covered in children's books. Children's drawings hung on the walls and a purple music box rested on the vanity in front of the bed. Each limb was tied to one of the four pillars that held up a purple canopy. Turning his head slightly, he noticed that the sheets he lay on were also a faded purple, with little pink butterflies. Glow in the dark stars clung to the ceiling. All in all, it appeared as though he was trapped in the bedroom of a little girl.

A door opened and Alexa entered, carrying a tray. She smiled. "You're awake."

"Alexa…" He coughed. His voice was hoarse and his throat constricted. He continued to wheeze as she set the tray down on the bedside table and hushed him. She gently touched his shoulder and pushed him back down again.

"Don't try to speak, you've just been poisoned. But I'm going to take care of you." She crouched down and pulled a gas tank out from under the bed, with a mask. She put the mask over his nose and mouth. He weakly protested, trying to turn away from her, but the carbon monoxide had left him drained and exhausted. She turned the valve on the tank and Nick looked up at her, his eyes asking what his voice could not.

"Don't worry," she assured him. "It's just oxygen. Carbon monoxide can be a real shock to your system, and I've seen it do horrible things to people. But you seem to have come out OK. I think I got the balance just right this time. I can knock you out without causing any permanent damage." He groaned and she straightened out the creases in the bedspread. "Now, don't be mad at me. I had to do something drastic to get you to listen to me. I know you'd just go back to her, and I don't want you to do that. We don't have to pretend anymore. We can be free of her, you and me. Together, here, in the room you made me."

Alexa crawled up onto the bed and nestled herself beneath Nick's outstretched arm, laying her head on his shoulder. "I missed you so much."

Nick could feel the weight of her head on his chest like a boulder, crushing him to death. He turned his head away from her.

She propped herself up on her elbow, noticing his detachment. "What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?"

Nick closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it had happened again, and this time he had walked right into it. What was it about traps set by psychopaths that never failed to trick him? Was he gullible, or just naïve? He kicked himself for believing she was a victim. Even with his head about to explode, and the fatigue brought on by the carbon monoxide, Nick could see everything now, clear as day. This was the woman who had killed Lincoln Meyer and James Sherman. They had assumed it was a man, but that's only because so few serial killers _are_ women. He should have known it the second he saw the scar on her face, but he had stupidly thought that meant she was a victim, even though she didn't fit the victim profile at all. But he did. He fit the profile perfectly. And now, he had launched a kamikaze mission and flown directly into her web, where he all but wrapped himself up in it and said "Special Delivery!"

Delivery… Greg's pizza. Nick's eyes scrunched up as he felt the sharp sting of bitterness leaking out of them. Greg would be so _mad_ at him for being late with his pizza! He'd probably have to go pick it up himself, grumbling about how unreliable and untrustworthy Nick was.

Nick felt a finger wipe away one of his tears. "Why are you crying? Is it because you're so happy?"

He opened his eyes and looked up at this girl, this woman, who was looking down at him with wide, innocent, child's eyes. Her hair fell softly around her sunken face as she watched him with concern, with… love. He didn't know who she thought he was, and a part of him didn't care. He just wanted to use it to get out of there.

So he nodded, painfully, his neck stiff.

She leaned forward and kissed his sweaty forehead. "I'm happy, too. You rest now. When you're ready, you can eat your breakfast, and then we'll talk."

He thought that meant she was leaving, but she only returned her head to his chest, one arm sprawling across it possessively. After about five minutes, he could hear her heavy breathing. He wished he could fall asleep so easily.


	4. Pretend Games

Chapter Four: Pretend Games

Grissom sat in his office, making notes of similarities between James Sherman and Lincoln Meyer, which were few and far between. Sara was kneeling at his shoulder, drawing lines between his notes and whispering suggestions in his ear. Having her so close was a comfort to him, and he tried to draw strength from her proximity, but still, nothing was making any sense.

"They have to have something in common somewhere," Sara said. "Look, Sherman had his accounts at Bank of America—"

"And Meyer was at Chase," Grissom said. "Also, different branches, different states."

Sara turned her body fully to face him. She reached across him and pulled the file from the edge of his desk and opened it. "Both Rogan and Meyer were from St. Louis," she said. "Maybe that's a connection."

"And what links James Sherman to St. Louis?" Grissom posited. And then, he pushed away from his desk and sighed. "No, this feels like a waste of time." He stood up and walked around his desk. Sara watched him.

"So what else are you going to do? Go out and search for him on foot?"

But Grissom just walked to the windows, glancing through at the rest of the lab, who were scurrying around like bees in an agitated hive. _More like soldiers_, he thought, _preparing for a retaliatory strike._ He raked his hands through his hair. He watched through the glass as Hodges delivered information to Catherine about the plant particulates he had found on the body and she received this with a stern expression, before wildly gesticulating and throwing Hodges' findings to the floor. His eyes drifted to the fingerprint lab where Warrick stood behind Mandy at her computer. He was squeezing her shoulder so hard, Grissom could see her flinching from the pressure of it, her shoulder pointing towards the ground as she sat lopsided in her computer chair.

"Where's Greg?"

"He's coming." The response was instant, almost defensive.

"You'd think he'd be here…" Grissom muttered.

"Do you remember him last year?" Sara asked. "He went practically catatonic. He had no idea what to do, and when he tried and Warrick yelled at him…"

Grissom turned away from the windows and looked at her. "It's been a year," he said. "He's had time to grow up."

By the look on her face, it seemed as though this was the coldest thing Sara had ever heard him say. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if searching for the words. She seemed to come up empty. "He's…" She closed her mouth again. "Grissom, he's Greg."

Grissom removed his glasses and put a hand over his eyes. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry. We just need all the help we can get right now, and where is he?"

She began to shake her head, her mouth open, her shoulders forming the helpless shrug when she stopped. She rose to her feet and nodded out at the hallway. "Right there," she said, before walking around the desk and out the door. She didn't even look at Grissom on her way out. He knew she was mad at him for his brisk comment. He would pay for it later. He watched her approach Greg, who was standing in the middle of the hallway, looking lost, his eyes glazed over. His profile was visible through the window in Grissom's office. He saw Sara approach him from behind and say something. Greg turned around. A moment later, they embraced.

Grissom turned away from them and his eyes fell on the phone. He felt something inside of him lurch forward, like that feeling he had whenever a rollercoaster began. He could feel the apprehension as he climbed up that first hill. He went and sat back at his desk, picking up the black receiver and holding it to his ear. He looked at the open personnel file on his desk, where Nick's grinning face looked back at him. He didn't really need to look, though. Grissom had a head for numbers, and he'd had to dial this one last year. It was one he'd hoped he'd never have to dial again. But dial it he did, and he waited as it rang, his rollercoaster approaching the top of this first hill. And then, it tipped forward.

"Yes, Judge Stokes… This is Gil Grissom of the Vegas Crime Lab, we met last year. I'm afraid… Sir, there's something I have to tell you about your son…"

* * *

When Greg arrived, the lab was abuzz with activity. Everyone was doing something, following some sort of lead, using the bodies of Lincoln Meyer, James Sherman and Dean Rogan as starting points. Warrick was in with Mandy, pushing the fingerprints through. Catherine was talking heatedly with Hodges about their trace evidence. And Grissom…

"I'm glad you came back."

Greg turned around to see Sara, watching him with sad eyes. He shrugged. "Déjà vu all over again, huh?"

She said nothing, only stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, which normally always comforted him no matter how bad of a day he'd had. But today, it didn't work. It was the first time in documented history that a hug from Sara Sidle couldn't cheer Greg up. Not even a little.

She pulled away, but kept a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me to look over the Dean Rogan file?"

He nodded dully, then followed her into a nearby layout room. He watched as she unpacked the files she carried, laying out crime scene photos across the table so that they could see all of them at once. As she worked, she spoke. "Grissom is going over the Sherman and Meyer cases, trying to make the connection. Brass is out contacting Lincoln Meyer's ex-wife to see where he was staying and if she might know anything about how or why he went missing. And we get this." She finished, straightened up and looked at her work before turning and handing Greg a file. "The file Detective Adams faxed over from St. Louis. It's a case we haven't seen before, and she's been really helpful giving us full access."

Greg took the file, then walked up to the table where the pictures were all laid out. "Cops get back from the park yet?"

"They found Nick's phone in the fountain," Sara told him. "Pulled some prints, Warrick and Mandy already compared them. One set was Nick's, the other unknown, but it matched the prints on Lincoln Meyer's business card. _And_ on the glasses found on Dean Rogan's body." She nodded at a photo of the glasses in question.

"Which only tells us that the same person who did this in St. Louis is doing it here," Greg said.

"Which means that Dean Rogan is probably patient zero," Sara explained. "Detective Adams thinks he knew his killer."

Greg shook his head. "Why would he? It might have been happenstance with him, just like it was with Link Meyer, just like it was with…" He swallowed. "No, that's just a hunch, there's no evidence to corroborate that."

"Maybe there is," said Sara. "That's why we look."

Greg took a deep breath and sat down, but all he could see were what he'd seen before. Facial scar, iron burn, ligature marks, and… "Sara, what was cause of death?"

She was quiet a moment. Then, "For Dean Rogan? Subdural hematoma."

Greg frowned. "You mean it wasn't the same for all victims?"

Sara nodded. "Sherman's neck was broken, and Lincoln Meyer had three broken ribs, two of which punctured his lung."

"They were beaten to death."

"Looks like."

Greg wrapped his arms around himself and nodded. "That means… that means this killer's got a lot of rage in him."

"Somewhere," said Sara. "But what's his purpose? Why keep them alive for a few days before killing them? Why give them the exact same wounds—"

"They aren't the same wounds, though," Greg said. "I mean, the scar and the burn, yeah, but the bruises and abrasions?"

"From the beatings," Sara surmised. "Hard to make identical."

Greg pursed his lips, his eyes scanning the photographs left and right, searching for something. "So… Lincoln Meyer, James Sherman, Dean Rogan, none of them had _any_ of the same social circles, right?"

"Rogan and Meyer were both from St. Louis," Sara suggested.

Greg looked up at her. "So? You and I are both from California, does that mean we knew each other before we came here?"

Sara chewed on her lip, then smacked them together. "Guess not."

"So how does he meet them?" Greg asked. "There's gotta be something they all have in common."

Sara shook her head. "Grissom and I've checked potential connections five times over. Different jobs, different neighborhoods, hell, they were even loyal to different _coffee_ franchises, and not a single _one_ of them was a Starbucks drinker."

Greg snapped his head up to look at her. "You're not being very helpful, Sara."

"Greg, I'm trying just as hard as you are here."

"Yeah…" Greg lowered his head again and squinted at a photograph of the body. "Hey, Sara…" he began. "Does that… look like a hand print to you?"

Sara's expression knit together into one of curiosity before she moved closer to him and pulled the picture towards her. "Where?"

"There, on his chin… The thumb is on one side, the fingers are sprawled out across his cheek."

Slowly, Sara nodded, then her eyes narrowed. "Wait." She took Greg's hand and held her own against it in comparison. Then, she seized Greg's chin tightly.

"What are you doing?" Greg tried to say, but it proved difficult with her gripping his jaw. She didn't explain, and she didn't let go, she just looked from the picture to Greg's face, tilting her head to see where her fingers were on his skin.

"Sara, this is beginning to get uncomfortable…"

"Mighty small handprint for a big nasty serial killer, isn't it?" she remarked, letting Greg go.

Greg stretched out his jaw in a circular motion and rubbed it with his hand. "What are you thinking? A teenager?"

But Sara shook her head. "No… I think it's a woman."

* * *

Something soft was tickling his neck, like a feather, and for one golden moment, he forgot where he was. And then, he tried to move his arms, numb from being in the same position for so long. He tugged on his binds, and could feel Alexa's hot breath on his neck. Droplets of her saliva clung to the small hairs in his skin.

"You're awake," she whispered in his ear.

The next thing Nick knew, she was straddling him. Her bony knees hugged his hips as she cupped his face in her hands, her fingers pressing into his skin. She leaned in close, hovering just above his nose, and he could hear every rattling breath as she exhaled into his mouth. Finally, and without warning, she struck with a kiss. Nick, still a little groggy and unsure of how to react to this new attack, could do nothing but let it happen. As her tongue invaded his mouth, he arched his back sharply in a vain attempt to knock her off balance. Her fingers raked back into his hair, then down onto his shoulders, and she dragged them across his chest, her nails leaving chalk-white trails in their wake. She tasted like stale Cheerios, and he suppressed his gag reflex for a few seconds before he had to forcibly turn away from her, violently breaking the kiss.

She slapped him hard across the face. "Stop that."

His cheek stinging, he opened his eyes and looked up at her. "I don't know who you want me to be, Alexa, but you must know that I'm not him. Somewhere, I know you know that."

She shook her head and held a finger to her lips. "Now's not the time for that," she said quietly. "Tonight, we pretend. Tonight, I am your princess, and you are my prince, and together we have to escape the tyranny of the wicked queen." She leaned in close to Nick's ear. "She's jealous of my youth and beauty. And because I stole you from her." When she straightened up again she was grinning. "But she's gone now, away on other royal duties, and we have the castle to ourselves."

She giggled before slamming her lips against his again, sloppy and rough, and Nick held his breath, tolerating it, but not returning it. She didn't seem to notice his apathy when she pulled away with a smack. He gasped for air, as if just breaking the surface of the ocean, but that stale flavor still lingered on his bruised lips. She reached over to the bedside table and took a pair of scissors in her hand. For a moment, Nick panicked, thinking she would stab him with them, but then she took the hem of his black t-shirt in her delicate fingers and began cutting a line up his chest. As she did this, she began humming what Nick recognized as the tune to _The Itsy Bitsy Spider_. It seemed to last for eons as she inched up the fabric. The sound of the scissors rang in his ear, the metal sliding against metal, snipping away at the fabric. He thought dully to himself, _Look on the bright side. At least it's not my favorite shirt_.

"… And the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again," she finished with words, as she cut through his collar. She pushed the two useless curtains of cotton aside with an almost theatrical flare, fully exposing Nick's chest. She looked down at it with glee. "Perfect," she whispered faintly, lowering her mouth to the naked skin. Her lips were chapped, but delicate as they danced across his chest like dead leaves. When Nick closed his eyes, he could almost allow himself to enjoy it. But in a way, that made it worse than pain.

"Please," he half-sobbed. "Alexa…"

She stopped at his navel, then looked up with mischievous eyes. He could feel the air from her nostrils curl across his stomach. "No need to beg, my prince, be _patient_."

With horror, he realized how she had interpreted his plea. His swollen throat constricted, and he pulled against the restraints. "_No_," he growled.

He could feel her hands sliding beneath him on the bed, into the back pockets of his jeans as she continued to kiss lower, her serpentine tongue slipping out to lick just above the hemline of his jeans. Nick's breathing grew heavier as he closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists, rattling the bed posts. And then, he felt her hands leave his pockets, and her lips vanished from his skin. Nick cautiously opened his eyes to look at her as she sat back up on her knees, holding something in her hands as she gave it a peculiar stare.

"What's this?"

She was holding his badge. He didn't know what to say, because any response he could think of wouldn't help him out of his situation.

She blinked at it, then looked up at him, betrayed. "Nicholas Stokes?" she uttered.

Nick began nodding vigorously. Something changed in her and she threw the badge to the floor, holding up her hands as if held at gunpoint. Her breathing rattled as she stared at him, and then her fingers flew to her lips as she shook her head. "Oh no…" she breathed. "Oh no, oh no, oh no, not _again_!" She immediately leapt off of him and onto the floor and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "OK… OK, let me think," she said, holding up her other hand. She stopped, then looked at him. "Who are you?"

Nick wasn't sure what was going on, but he answered her question. "My name is Nick Stokes," he said. "I work for the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I met you there when you came to… Well, I don't really know what you came to do, but that's where we met."

She nodded, as if it was coming back to her. "OK," she said. "And I brought you here?"

"Yes," Nick said.

Alexa hit her palm to her forehead. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!"

"Alexa," Nick began slowly. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"No, I really can't," she replied, sounding panicked as she began to pace back and forth in the room. "OK, wait. I need to figure out what to do. Let me think a moment. Jesus, Alexa, how are you going to fix it _this_ time?"

"Alexa, please, untie me," Nick tried. "You're… sick. I can tell. OK? We can get you to a doctor."

Alexa stopped pacing, then turned to Nick. "But you hate doctors," she said.

Nick held his breath, his mouth open, then, "No, I don't. Whoever you think I am right now might hate them, but the rational part of you knows who I am, Alexa. I'm Nick Stokes."

She seemed confused, then nodded swiftly. "Right, right." She began pacing again, holding her forehead. "OK, um…" She stopped. "I have a gun downstairs. It'd be straight to the head, it wouldn't hurt, I swear."

"Whoa!" Nick cried. "What? No!"

"I can't let you go," she said. "Not after the things I've done, I'll go to _prison_."

"Alexa, why did you take me?" Nick asked. "_Who_ do you want me to _be_?"

She shook her head. "You know that, uh, that book with, uh, that scientist? And he drinks this potion, or something, and then he totally flips out?"

Nick nodded. "Jekyll and Hyde."

"Yeah, that's like me, except… I-I-I relive these… these _things_," she said. "And if, uh, if something goes wrong when that happens, if I realize it's not true…" She stopped pacing, all the color gone from her face as she turned to face Nick. "I'm going to kill you one way or the other, I always do. Might as well make it quick."

Nick felt something icy fall into the pit of his stomach and melt as it hit the acids. "Please, Alexa…" he whimpered, unable to keep the tears from creeping out of his eyes. "You gotta let me go. Just let me go."

Her face softened and her eyes grew wide. She walked over to him and kneeled next to the bed, cradling his head in her hands and wiping the tears away with her thumbs. "Oh, no…" she said. "Don't cry."

She kissed him gently on the lips, and he knew that she was gone again. "Your princess is here to make it all better."

* * *

Brass took the crime scene photo out of Sara's hand. "A woman?"

"Or a very small man," Sara said. "But I think it's the former."

Riley was skeptical. "Whoever this was needed enough strength to subdue some rather muscular men."

"Unless she didn't have to," Greg offered. "Riley, you said Lincoln Meyer was the type to go out of his way to help the underdog, right? Nick had a similar chivalrous streak. What if she didn't abduct them, what if they went with her willingly?"

"I don't buy it," Riley insisted, folding her arms.

But Brass looked pensive. "It's different," he admitted. "And it's a new perspective. Can you expand your profile?"

Riley pursed her lips. "I don't know, women don't think the same way men do. I'll have to call my partner."

"As for you two," Brass said. "Go home. Sleep." Greg and Sara both opened their mouths to protest, but Brass held up a hand to stop them. "I'm telling the others the same thing, so don't even start. You are no good to Nick exhausted."

"Who's going to look for Nick?" Sara asked, anxiety punctuating the question.

"The team of uniforms scouring the city for him as we speak," Brass assured them. "Not to mention the entire dayshift staff, who are taking over from here on out. Come back when you've had at least seven hours."

"What are _you_ going to do?" Greg asked.

"I'm going home, too," he replied, then looked at Riley. "Detective Adams already took her break. She'll stay on and keep us posted."

Both Sara and Greg looked at her a moment, as if not certain that this was the best idea. Riley tried on her best reassuring smile, which was probably the least used of all her expressions.

"I'll work this case as if he were my own brother," she promised them. "Brass has already programmed you guys into my speed dial. You'll know as soon as I do."

* * *

When Greg arrived in the locker room, he saw that Warrick was already there, shouldering a messenger bag as he stared vacantly into his locker. His stomach gurgling apprehensively, Greg tried to sneak by him on the other side of the bench that ran between the two sets of lockers.

He thought he'd gotten away with it, until he heard Warrick say, "So, what did _you_ do?"

Greg froze, misinterpreting the remark as an accusation. "Warrick…" He faltered, looking at the back of Warrick's head and trying to think of some sort of excuse that would be worthy, that would help everything make sense, but beyond, _I just wanted some pizza_, Greg could think of nothing.

Warrick fell back onto the bench, his forearms resting on his knees as he stared at the ground. "Brass is right. I do need a break."

Greg tilted his head and gave Warrick a quizzical look. He rounded the bench and sat next to him. "Why?"

For the first time in the conversation, Warrick looked up at Greg and cocked an eyebrow. "You didn't hear?"

Slowly, Greg shook his head.

Warrick laughed. It wasn't amused or sad. It was just tired. "Scared poor Mandy half to death." He looked over at the door. "Really should apologize to her for that."

There was a strange quiet that fell between them. Greg wanted to ask him to continue, but at the same time, he knew Warrick would speak when he felt comfortable enough to do so.

He was right. "I had her pull up every database. Not just Nevada and Missouri… I had her go into IAFIS."

"The federal database?"

"Yup."

"Any luck?"

The look Warrick gave him answered that question. "So I asked her to pull up EURODAC, and that's where she drew the line."

Greg felt his own frustrations rising. "Why the hell did she do that?"

Again, Warrick chuckled. "Because she doesn't have access. Not an American system."

Greg's anger fizzled away. "Oh… right."

But Warrick gave him a sympathetic look. "Anyways, tension was running high and all, and dead end upon dead end sort of compounded itself… I yelled at her. Threw the keyboard on the floor. That's when Brass called me in. Told me to go home."

Greg nodded. "Makes more sense now. He just told Sara and me to pack it up as well. Guess he's worried about another… Well, what you did."

"Guess so," Warrick breathed. He rose to his feet, adjusting his grip on his messenger bag. "I'll… see you later."

Greg also leapt to his feet, his stomach twisting again. "Warrick, I… I want to… apologize."

Warrick's eyebrows came together and he managed a bemused smile. "For what, Greg?"

Greg pursed his lips and wrapped his arms around himself. He looked down at the floor, then up again at Warrick. "For Nick. For… I don't know, sending him out there. Should've just gotten delivery, am I right? Or moved my own fat ass, picked it up myself…" He nudged an invisible speck on the floor with the toe of his shoe.

He heard movement from Warrick. The rustling of a jacket, the plop of a messenger bag… and a solid hand gripping his shoulder. Greg's eyes remained on the toe of his shoe.

"Greg, look at me." He obliged. He owed Warrick that much. The other man was looking at him, his blue eyes sharper than ever as he tried hard to keep Greg's skittish gaze. "You think I haven't been where you are?"

Greg opened his mouth to respond, but Warrick didn't give him the chance.

"This isn't on _you_. All right?"

Greg didn't know what to say. He heard the sincerity in Warrick's tone, felt his fingers digging into his shoulder. He _knew_ it was important to Warrick that he understood those words, but he just couldn't. He couldn't, because… "Warrick, what if he—"

Warrick didn't let him finish. "I used to have an issue, with gambling. And it was a struggle, and one I never dealt with all that well. I mostly managed to stay away from the casinos, but I still put small wagers on football games, even cases. Last year, a coin toss put Nick in the ground. I haven't placed any kind of bet since."

Greg was quiet as he processed this. Then, "Does that mean I won't be able to eat pizza again?"

Very slowly, Warrick's lips curled, giving birth to a smile that spread across his face like a sunrise. He loosened his grip on Greg's shoulders and gave him a hard pat before saying, "You shouldn't eat that stuff anyway. I think you're gaining weight."

He turned to leave and Greg indignantly called, "My BMI is within average range, you jerk!"


	5. Family Matters

**_Author's Note_**: I wanted to personally thank LittleGloriana and Mma63 for dutifully reviewing each chapter as I post. I know others are reading but it really makes my day to see that people are enjoying this effort. I've been out of the fandom so long, it seems most of my usual followers are gone, so it's nice to see there are still a few people who will hang in there with me on this story. If you're reading, please drop me a line and let me know, it's the polite thing to do. Also, this chapter marks the inevitable rating increase. Not so much for this chapter, as in preparation for next chapter, which will deal with very explicit themes that may or may not make you feel a bit ill. Short chapter today, but a longer one to come, cross my heart.

Chapter Five: Family Matters 

Riley waited until the graveyard shift had all exited the building before heading out and rounding up officers for her personally headed search party. After briefing them at the precinct, she returned to the crime lab, calling over her shoulder to Officer Metcalf as she went. "Fuel up, we're heading out in ten."

She strode into Grissom's office as if it were her own. She saw Nick's personnel file laying open on his desk and walked around it to seize it, and it was only then that she looked up and noticed there were two people, a man and a woman, sitting in front of his desk. Riley hesitated, her mouth partially open as she managed a smile.

"Hello…" she said slowly.

They were both older, dignified, wearing business attire. The man wore a suit with a blue tie, and the woman wore a gray pencil skirt and blazer with a light pink blouse and a string of pearls. The couple complimented each other perfectly. It was the man who spoke first. "You're not Dr. Grissom."

Riley forced an awkward laugh. "Last time I checked."

They didn't even smile.

Riley let out a low whistle, then extended her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm Detective Riley Adams from St. Louis. Helping Vegas out on a manhunt."

The man rose to his feet and took her proffered hand. He nodded at her words. "That manhunt…" he began. "I assume it's for the bastard that took my son?"

The color drained from Riley's face and her grip slackened, but the man wouldn't let go until he had his answer. "Uh…" And again, she tried to laugh. When it didn't work, she dropped the smile, and nodded seriously. "Yes. Yes, sir, I believe it is."

He let go of her hand and straightened out his suit. "I'm Bill Stokes. This is my wife, Jillian."

Riley nodded at the both of them, her face as solemn as a grave stone. "How do you do?"

"Not well," Bill Stokes said loudly.

Riley flushed. "Of course. I'm sorry—"

"What is wrong with you people?" Bill growled. "Can't you keep track of your employees and coworkers? Does someone from this lab disappear every day? Does it happen a lot, or is my son just special?"

"Uh…"

"I can understand once," he continued. "Once, it's their fault. I put these sons of bitches away, I know how they work. But you should too. You should have seen this coming."

"Bill—"

"Not now, Jillian," Bill said, his eyes remaining on Riley, who shrank back at his words. "My boy is smart. My boy is _strong_. My boy is _not_ someone who is easily subdued or distracted or _fooled_."

"No," Riley said, shaking her head. "No, sir, of course he's not."

"So tell me, then, Detective," he said, annunciating every word. "How could you allow this to happen?" His imposing voice rose several decibels, enough to make Riley sit down in Grissom's chair.

"Bill!" Jillian Stokes admonished, leaping to her feet. Riley looked from one to the other. Nick's mother took her husband by the shoulders and forced him to face her. He was hanging his head, and she shook his shoulders to make him meet her eye. "We talked about this on the plane. You can't yell at flight attendants, you can't yell at taxi drivers, and you can't yell at detectives."

Bill brought his arms up, breaking free of her grip on his shoulders. "And who can I yell at, Jillian?"

"I don't know!" Jillian cried, sarcasm punctuating her words. "How about the bastard responsible?"

Her husband looked about to protest, but he held his breath and turned back to Riley, who was still in Grissom's chair. "Do you have any leads? Suspects?"

Riley tried to choose her words carefully. "Well…"

"Are you absolutely incompetent?" Bill snapped.

"Bill!"

"Judge Stokes?" The voice had come from the doorway, and everyone turned to see Grissom there, watching them with a curious expression. Riley sighed with relief. _So he's a judge, huh?_ she thought. _Hate to be a defendant in _his_ courtroom_.

"Thank God," Bill muttered. "Someone with brains." He approached and held out his hand. "Dr. Grissom, I only wish I could be greeting you under happier circumstances."

"As do I," Grissom said with a nod.

"You found him once," said Jillian, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. "You can do it again." It wasn't a question; it was a statement of utter faith.

Grissom smiled weakly at her, then nodded. "Yes, Mrs. Stokes. We will."

Riley rose to her feet, taking Nick's personnel file and trying to slip out as quietly as she could. Unfortunately, she needed to pass all three of them to get back out into the hall. Grissom caught her eye, but she ducked her head and tried to walk by him. He caught her arm, making her turn around and face Nick's parents.

"You've met Detective Adams?"

Bill grumbled, but his wife said, "Yes, we've had the pleasure." Bill snorted at the comment.

Grissom nodded, seeming to understand the subtext. "Did she tell you why she came to Vegas tonight?"

"She's supposed to be out looking for my son," Bill snarled.

Grissom nodded. "Yes, she did volunteer for that. Detective Adams came here tonight to investigate a lead she was following concerning a potential serial killer out of St. Louis, only to discover the crime scene of her friend, Lincoln Meyer." He looked at Jillian. "A lawyer, also from St. Louis."

Bill pursed his lips and folded his arms as Jillian's eyes grew wide.

"Detective Adams has agreed to be our daytime liaison during this case, as the rest of us get some much needed rest so we can attack it with fresh eyes," Grissom continued. "She's as devoted to finding this person as anyone."

There was quiet. Riley shifted and pointed out the door. "Um, I told Metcalf…"

"Thank you, Detective," Grissom said, a light glinting in his blue eyes. Or, it could have been his glasses. Riley ducked her head like a scorned child and made her exit, feeling worse than when she'd come in there.

* * *

Brass had on his jacket and was on his way out of the building when he made the mistake of walking by Gil Grissom's office. His pace slowed to a stop and he lingered there, watching as Grissom sat behind his desk and explained, as calmly as he could, the entire situation to Nick's parents. He could see the back of Judge Stokes' head nodding every so often. Soon enough, he saw the judge reach out and take his wife's hand, bridging the space between them. He watched her squeeze it. They were each other's anchor, and they were tethered together by that single touch. Without that gesture, an ignorant bystander would assume this was just another business meeting among associates. Grissom's face was set, but not upset, as he relayed the necessary information, and Nick's parents both had perfect posture as they forced themselves to listen.

With a sigh, Brass pulled his eyes away from the scene and noticed that Mandy was standing a few feet in front of him, also watching. She seemed to feel that Brass was watching her, and turned to face him, ringing her hands. Brass could see the bruise on her wrist where, when trying to calm Warrick down, the CSI had inadvertently twisted it.

"What is he telling them?" Mandy asked, her voice smaller than the squeak of a mouse.

"What he has to."

Mandy looked down at the floor, then up again. "I'm sorry that I couldn't access the EURODAC. I have a cousin in Norway who—"

"I highly doubt it would yield any results anyway." He paused, before adding, "But thank you, Mandy."

She glanced through to the labs on her left and her eyes lingered there. Brass followed her gaze to see Wendy in the trace lab, and she was watching them closely. She stood beside Hodges, who appeared to be processing evidence, although Brass believed this was only a pretense, and a weak one at that. Brass smiled sadly and shook his head before making his way down the hall, past Mandy.

Her words made him stop again. "We all want him back, Detective." He turned around to look at her again. "We miss him, too."

"I know," Brass said, his voice low, quiet, but honest.

Mandy nodded. "Good. Would you… tell Warrick that for me?"

Brass closed his eyes, pursed his lips, but nodded. "He didn't mean to—"

"I know." And like Brass, her voice was also low and quiet, but there was a hint of doubt in it.

* * *

Even before meeting Nick Stokes' parents, Riley fully intended on keeping the promise she'd made to Greg and Sara, which is precisely why she was out doing the legwork with Officer Metcalf within half an hour of making it. And that is also why seasoned detective Riley Adams, at 11:00AM, nine hours after Nick was discovered missing, found herself knocking on doors in the neighborhood to see if anyone had noticed anything suspicious.

She had opted to take the businesses, as they were more likely to have more watchful citizens than the private residences. After all, when you own a convenience store near Finley, you have to be wary of any customer that that comes in after the sun goes down. Not to mention the fact that several commercial enterprises invested in video surveillance to protect their stores. Riley was keeping her fingers crossed that one of those cameras may have caught something.

But they had already checked the convenience store, and the appliance shop, and the cafes. No one reported seeing anything, and the surveillance cameras had horrible views of the streets. Riley looked up at their next option and began to lose faith. The hours on the auto shop reported that it closed at 5:00PM every day, and that body was definitely dumped after that, as there would have still been bikers out on the trail at that hour. She groaned, but entered the shop anyway with Officer Metcalf right behind her.

The door led directly into the office, but it was empty. Metcalf took the liberty of checking the door to the adjacent garage.

"No one there," he reported. "Just a black Tahoe. Hood's popped, though."

Riley emitted another frustrated growl. "Where the hell's the help around here?"

As if answering her plea, the door marked _Employees Only_ swung open. A small, scrawny woman was wiping oil off her hands with a rag, and had a smudge of it on her cheek as well. She smiled at the sight of them as she made for her desk.

"Hope you haven't been waiting long," she said. "Just washing up. What can I do for you?"

"Washing up?" Riley cocked an eyebrow. "You missed a spot."

The woman laughed. "Yes, well, oil is like red wine. You can never get it out. Make and model?"

"What?"

"Of your car," she elaborated. "I only ask because while I can do the Japanese ones, my specialties are in domestic brands."

"Like that Chevy Tahoe you got in your garage?" Riley asked.

She nodded. "Also got a fine classic of a pickup in the back. Wanna see?"

Riley forced a smile, then pulled out her badge. "Maybe later. I need to ask you a few questions concerning something that happened in this area last night."

She gave an awkward shrug. "How late last night?"

"Between sundown and ten o'clock."

The woman puckered her lips, her eyes unfocussed, then shook her head. "No, I would have been home by then. We close at five."

Riley sighed. "Yeah, I saw that. Still, couldn't hurt to ask, right?"

"Of course not," said the woman.

Riley yawned and turned to leave. She gestured at Metcalf to follow. "Thank you for your…"

She stopped, her hand on the door. Her brow furrowed into a curious expression and she turned around. "Ma'am, who is the owner of that black Tahoe?"

The mechanic's eyes flew to the ceiling. "Um… Oh, yeah, duh, Mike Larson. He dropped it off this morning, told me that the alternator is shot. He brings me all sorts of different cars to play with. He's in sales, you know. Previously owned?"

"Mind if we check the plates?" Riley asked.

She shook her head. "Not at all."

So Riley and Metcalf entered the garage. The officer drew closer to the detective. "You don't think this car belongs to Nick Stokes, do you?"

"We've got an APB out on a Chevy Tahoe," Riley replied. "Seems a bit too much of a coincidence that one just happens to end up in her garage the morning after he disappears."

She tilted her head and opened her folder. The plates didn't match.

She heard the owner of the garage enter behind them. "Find anything?"

Riley still had her doubts. She turned her head to the owner. "What about the VIN?"

The woman nodded. "I got it written down in his papers," she said. "Come back into the office."

But Riley strode over to the car itself. She looked under the hood, then at her notes. She tossed a glance at Metcalf, who raised his eyebrows.

Riley turned back to the owner of the auto shop. "Thank you for your time, ma'am," she said. She handed the woman her card. "Please. If you can think of anything, or notice anything odd in the park tonight, or any other night, don't hesitate to give me a call."

"If I may ask…" the woman began. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"A person," Riley told her. She handed the woman a picture. "He's been missing since last night. We think he's been abducted."

The woman looked at the picture and traced his face with her fingers. "He looks so happy…" she said, wistfully. She snapped her head up to look at Riley with sad eyes. "I wish I could be of more help."

"You have been," Riley lied, then gestured at Metcalf to follow. As they were leaving, she commented, "Standing in that garage, it hit me. This horrible _pounding_ headache. Be with me all day, I swear."

"Tell me about it," said Metcalf.

* * *

She was genuinely sorry about the missing man in the photo. Her heart ached to think that there was someone out there who couldn't be with the people he loved because someone had taken him from them. She remembered what that was like, being away from the only one who had ever really loved her. But that didn't matter now, because they were together again.

She climbed the stairs and opened the door to see him there, on the bed. The sedative in the food she had fed him had knocked him out pretty well. She was glad. He didn't need to feel this. She crawled onto the bed and slung her knee over his hips, sitting up as she drew the knife. Watching him sleep was almost heaven. His eyes were dry again, and his lips were straight, his expression unburdened. That evil woman didn't haunt him when he slept. No, _she_ could not touch them there.

Alexa drew the knife out of her pocket. He was almost heaven, almost perfect, almost hers… but not quite. Certain alterations needed to be made.

"_Your blood is my blood, your wounds are my wounds_."

He had said that to her, the night her mother had cut her. He had said that before turning the knife on himself.

"_You see, Lexa? I don't care. She thinks she can take away your beauty. She thinks she can stop me from loving you. But that will never happen_."

She touched her fingers to the scar on her face, remembering the most selfless act of devotion she had ever witnessed. She leaned over him now, her forearms resting on either side of his shoulders, and her lips brushed delicately against his forehead. She stroked his hair, then held the knife beneath the far corner of his left eye. As she brought the blade across his face, she felt him stiffen beneath her, letting out a groan in his sleep. But he didn't wake up.

Though her scar had been a slash from a jealous woman, his had to be slow, delicate. That's how he had done it the first time. It had been a testament to his resolve, to what he would tolerate just to keep her beside him. She held it steady, drawing the blade down his cheek like an artist's pen before ending with a flourish at his chin. The blood blossomed from the wound like rubies and Alexa leaned down to lick the incision. She straightened again, licking her lips. She reached for the iodine on the bedside table and poured it onto some gauze before dabbing at the incision.

He stirred. She pulled away. His eyelids fluttered and his face contorted in pain. "Ah…" he sighed, his breathing coming in bursts. He turned his head to the side, his unmarred cheek towards the mattress, then let out a much louder, "_Ah_!"

She hushed him and stroked his hair. "No, sweetheart, no, it's OK."

"What did you…" He winced.

"Sh, sh, sh, don't talk," she said.

He turned to face her again, bafflement scribbled across his face. She smiled at him like an angel. "It's a testament to how much you love me. Remember?" She put the iodine down and took a fresh pair of brown, rectangular-rimmed glasses and placed them delicately over his ears. "There. Doesn't that feel better?"

"Alexa…"

She leaned down and kissed him, her hands moving over his shoulders and squeezing them. She leaned her forehead against his. "I just want you to remember," she whispered, "how much I love you, too, Daddy."


	6. Alexa Rex

**_Author's Note_****:** I would post more frequently, but the problem is graduate school, and a beta who's also overloaded with homework. Hopefully, once a week is frequent enough. Apologies for the heavy Alexa focus this chapter; I know focusing too much on an OC can lose some readers. But I felt her story needed to be told. And the vignettes of the team should help break up the doses of crazy in this chapter. Once again, note that the rating has risen. I don't know how disturbing you'll find some of the descriptions. I tried to be clear, but not too explicit. Happy reading!

Chapter Six: Alexa Rex

Alexa King was eight years old when her father confessed his love for her. It wasn't the first time he'd said, "I love you." Being the devoted caregiver that he was, he had said those words to Alexa multiple times a day, every day of her life. But when she was eight years old, it was the first time he told her he loved her with his hand down her pants.

She knew it was wrong, because it felt wrong, and her face was flushed a deep magenta as she tried to hide behind her hair. Before that moment, she had been a child. She had thrived in Ms. Lipman's third grade class, where she'd been in the accelerated reading program. Math had been her least favorite subject, and after school she'd delighted in her gymnastics activities. Her favorite book used to be _A Little Princess_, and when she grew up, she'd wanted to be a teacher.

But all of that was over, now that her father told her that she was ready. He told her she was ready to understand truly how much he loved her, and he communicated this love by caressing her flat chest, among other places, and making her caress him. She never wanted to. But he was her father, and she loved him, and he said this was how she could prove it.

They were always proving their love to each other. That's what her father said grown-ups did, and she was old enough to understand that now. But Alexa didn't think that was true, because she didn't understand. She didn't understand why love made her uncomfortable and unsure of herself. But she did know that she loved her father, because he was the man who would read her stories every night before bed, and always gave in when she begged for just one more. He was the man who made her peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and left little notes for her in her lunch box. He was the man who checked in her closet every night for monsters, and he was the man who stayed up with her all night when she was sick.

And she loved him for all of those reasons, for eight years of loyalty and self-sacrifice. She just assumed it was time that she returned the favor, so not wanting to, not enjoying it, wasn't an option. He wanted her, but he wanted her to want it, too, so Alexa tried hard to do what he said. By the time she was nine years old, Alexa had learned how to make her father happy. She also learned to enjoy their secret evenings together, or at least, she learned not to hate them. He slept with her, in her four poster bed, because he said he was lonely in his room without her.

Alexa's mother was a high-powered businesswoman, or at least, that's what her father called her. She often worked late nights and attended out of town business trips. Alexa and her mother used to be close, at one time, but that was when she was a child. By the time she was ten, she'd grown indifferent to her mother, who was home less and less. When she _was_ home, Alexa's father slept in _their_ bed, with _her_. When she was eight, Alexa had seen this as a reprieve, and always sighed with relief when her mother announced she'd be home for a few days, or even a week. Her father rarely proved his love for his daughter when Alexa's mother was around.

But as she grew older, and more dependent on her father, she began to realize that she dreaded the nights when he _wasn't_ in her bed. On one such occasion, she had curled into a ball and seethed when she thought about what her father was doing to her mother, and the lies he had to be telling her. She could see it in her mind. He would be touching her stomach with one hand, and her hair with another, whispering that he had few opportunities anymore to prove to her exactly how much he loved her, and then he would actually do it, he would prove it to her, and he would probably prove it to her all night long.

Alexa didn't understand why these images made her so angry, but she knew that lying was a sin, and her father had told her when she was eight years old that he no longer loved her mother like he used to. So if he told her mother anything different, then he was lying to her. Alexa's father would never lie to his daughter, of this Alexa was certain. He had always been so honest with her about everything else. Alexa decided to see for herself what happened in her parents' bed at night.

She crawled soundlessly out of her bed and opened her door, tiptoeing down the hall. The door was closed, so she carefully turned the knob and it creaked open. There was movement on the bed, but it was too dark to see. She stood there in the doorway a minute, staring into the darkness.

"What is it, sweetheart?" It was her mother who had asked the question.

Alexa wrapped her arms around herself. "I had a bad dream," she said. "Could I sleep with you?"

"Sweetheart, you're ten years old now, don't you think—"

"Don't be like that, Jo, can't you see she's scared? Of course you can come in and sleep with us, Lexa."

Alexa knew that she was triumphant and ran into the bedroom, diving onto the bed between her parents. She snuggled especially close to her father, who wrapped his arms protectively around her.

"No monsters or nightmares in this bed, OK, Lexa?"

She nodded and smiled as she felt her father nuzzle her shoulder and kiss her neck. Seconds later, she found sleep.

* * *

The buzzing of her phone vibrating on the bedside table woke Sara immediately, as well as the man lying beside her.

The anxiety she was feeling was reflected in her greeting. "What is it, did you find him?"

"Sara?"

Her shoulders slumped and she glanced over at Grissom, who looked to be holding his breath. "Hi, Greg."

Grissom exhaled and nodded, swinging his legs out over the bed. Sara wasn't sure where he was going. They still had four more hours before Brass would even consider letting them go back.

"I had a bad dream," Greg said into the phone.

Sara took a deep breath as she sat up and leaned against the headboard. "I know," she said. "It's hard to sleep when you're thinking about him."

"No, it wasn't about Nick," Greg clarified.

Sara couldn't say she wasn't intrigued. "Then what was it about?"

Greg groaned. "I dreamed that I'd gained like three hundred pounds and I couldn't get out of my bed."

Sara snorted, and her hand flew to her mouth to suppress a giggle. "Oh, Greg…" she said, shaking her head. She felt a tear sting her eye and she stared at the ceiling, blinking it away.

"Don't laugh at me, it was a terrifying experience!"

Sara took her forefingers to the inner corners of her eyes and wiped some of the tears away. "I'm sorry you had a bad dream, but I am _not_ sorry I laughed."

Though his voice sounded sad, she swore she could hear a smile in it somewhere, waiting to get out. "Yeah, I guess I'm not really sorry you laughed either."

* * *

Alexa was eleven when Joanna King caught her daughter with her husband. Alexa remembered that it was a Friday, because her father had made her shepherd's pie for dinner, her ultimate favorite, and he only made it on Fridays. Afterwards, he had coaxed her upstairs to lay with him as he read her a story. Only, when they got up there, and he had her under the covers, he didn't do much reading. At this point, Alexa was still struggling with her secret evenings with her father under the covers. Even after three years, it still seemed awkward, uncomfortable, even painful at times, depending on her father's mood. And yet, a part of her wanted to be as close to her father as possible, and she always wanted to make him as happy as he made her, so she always did her best to try.

She preferred it when he asked her to use her hands or her mouth, and she was using the latter on that particular evening. Though these things had felt strange at first, she was used to them by now, and he was very good at teaching her how to get it just right. She had been using the skills her father had taught her to make him happy when the door slowly opened. It was so slow, that Alexa didn't even hear it at all. She only felt her father's fingers in her hair clench, and then she heard her mother scream.

Alexa was so startled she almost snapped her jaw shut, but before she could, her father's other hand came to the side of her head and pulled her off. She rolled onto her back and stared, horrified and humiliated at her mother, whose hands were clasped over her mouth as if afraid something sinister would escape it. Joanna's eyes snapped shut, and she ran out of the room, slamming another door. Alexa strained her ears and she heard the sound of retching. She wondered if this was a common reaction when people proved their love to each other, because she had vomited nightly when her father had first began doing it to her.

She felt her father's hand creep across her bare shoulders, and she leaned into him. He kissed the top of her hair. "Don't you worry, Lexa, Daddy's gonna make everything OK."

He rolled out of her bed and pulled on his jeans, which had lain forgotten on the floor. He turned back to Alexa and eased her shoulders backward, so she was lying flat on the bed, before tucking her in.

"Stay here. I'll be right back." He turned out the lights as he left.

Alexa pulled the covers up to her nose and did as she was told. She watched her father leave, but he left the door ajar. She saw light spill out into the hall as the bathroom door flew open.

"Jo—"

"Don't touch me."

"Jo, listen to me—"

"I said _don't touch me_."

There was quiet. Alexa moved to the corner of her bed, craning her neck to try and see into the hall, but it was no use. All she had were voices.

"What are you going to do?"

"You know _damn well_ what I am going to do, Louis!"

There was a scuffle. "Jo, give me the phone." Then, a loud crack like a belt snapping and her father cursed. "_Dammit_, Jo, give me the _phone_."

"Try and take it from me again and I will slap you again, so help me God!"

"Joanna!"

She heard beeping sounds, like numbers being dialed. Then there was another smack and crash. There was more movement, but Alexa couldn't tell what was going on. There was a thump and the walls shook.

"You can't tell _anybody_, Jo, do you hear me?"

"Louis, you're hurting me—"

"Do you _hear_ me? I will _not_ let you take me away from her, she _needs_ her father, she _needs_ me!"

"What have you done to her? What have you done to our baby girl?" There was a strange sound, like gurgling, and then Alexa could have sworn someone spit something, like gum. "You're despicable."

"You're _jealous_," Alexa's father hissed. "Jealous because I haven't touched _you_ in four years."

"Is that how long you've been _molesting_ your own _daughter_?"

There was another crack, but this was different. It was deeper and heavier, not like the piercing one from earlier. And this time, it was her mother who cried out in pain.

"You're old," her father said, with the most disdain Alexa had ever heard him use, "and dried up and bitter. And your whole little world depends on one very fragile thing. And that is why you won't tell _anyone _about this, Joanna."

"I'll tell the world if it would keep you from her."

Alexa stiffened. She didn't want her father to go. Why was her mother being so mean? Didn't she understand that Alexa and her father were in love? Why couldn't her mother just let Alexa have him? As she sank deeper under her covers, she remembered the fairytales her father would read to her. She felt like Snow White, and her wicked mother was trying to steal her prince away from her.

"And what will happen to you, Joanna? How will this make _you_ look? The recovering alcoholic who spent most of her days and nights away from her family, allowing her husband to seduce her daughter _for three years_? What will people say about you, Joanna?"

"I don't care—"

"I think you do. I've seen you when we go out with friends. You always order a Bloody Mary when the drink orders come out before excusing yourself thirty seconds later to tell the waiter to make it a virgin. You think no one can tell that there's no vodka in your tomato juice, and you know what, they can't, because you have got to be the only woman in the world who lies when she says she _has_ been drinking alcohol. And I know _why_ you do it, too. You're ashamed. You're ashamed of yourself, and you're ashamed of _us_ because _we_ are part of your old life, the one you had before you got sober, before you got your fancy job, and before you found your brand new life. You love that life more than you could _ever_ love Lexa, and you would never throw it away over a slut like her, would you?"

Silence fell like a shroud over the house. Alexa waited with bated breath to hear her mother's response. She wasn't sure what all the words her father meant was, but she hoped that they helped.

"You don't hate me because I'm old," Alexa's mother said quietly. "You hate me because I don't need you to hold my hair back when I throw up anymore."

All Alexa could hear was the sound of her father's heavy breathing. "Now. Joanna. Why don't you go downstairs, kick off those painful looking heels, and make yourself a Virgin Mary?"

Her mother said nothing, but Alexa could hear those same high heels clicking slowly down the hall. Moments later, her father's silhouette appeared in her doorway.

"There," he said, his voice sickeningly sweet. "I told you I'd make it better."

* * *

After placating Greg's fears about being overweight, Sara finally convinced him to hang up. It took about half an hour. They both knew that it wasn't just his body image issues that were keeping him on the phone. But she reminded him that they had to sleep, because they needed to be sharp. Not following her own advice, Sara got out of bed and went into the living room, searching for Grissom.

She found him on a stool at the breakfast bar, his back hunched, his glasses on. He was eating a bowl of Wheaties while he looked over some papers. Sara came up behind him and began massaging his shoulders. He closed his eyes and took off his glasses.

"Twice in one year…" he groaned.

She knew exactly what he was talking about. She moved her hands down his arms and rested her chin on his shoulder. "What can I tell you, Nick's irresistible. Have you seen those abs?"

Grissom leaned forward, moving away from her touch as he placed his forehead in his hand, his elbow on the bar. "That's not funny."

She bit her lip. "Sorry. I've been talking to Greg."

"Yes, I know."

Sara's lips twitched as she slid into the stool next to Grissom. "Wait a minute… are you jealous?"

"No," Grissom said simply. The word was so flat, she almost believed him. "I'm just frustrated."

"Day shift's doing their best," Sara said.

"_We_ should be doing our best," Grissom replied, turning to her.

Sara smiled sadly and put her hand on his cheek. "Not even _you_ can work a seventy-two hour shift and still be, you know, alive."

Grissom's hand came up to cover Sara's. "Oh God… What would I do without you?"

She pulled her hand away, slightly thrown by his words. But Grissom had a habit of saying the most intimate things in the most unexpected ways. And, just as he always did when he made these revelations, he just kept going as if he hadn't said anything strange at all.

"It's all about Dean Rogan." He pushed the papers he was looking at over to Sara. "First victim, only one that's not exactly like the victim profile. But we need more than evidence."

Sara was surprised. "More than evidence? But I thought you always said—"

"I mean," Grissom clarified, "that we need a liaison."

She knit her brow together. "A liaison? A liaison to whom?"

"To the St. Louis PD."

* * *

Alexa came home from school bubbling with anticipation for her thirteenth birthday. Her father had reluctantly let slip that he had a big surprise for her tonight, and her toes and fingers were tingling as she imagined what it could be. But when she opened the door and stepped inside, her father was nowhere to be found. Instead, she saw her mother, sitting silently on the couch, a wine glass in hand. Due to the position of the couch from the door, Alexa could only see the back of her head.

Over the past year and a half, she had watched her mother deteriorate before her very eyes. She had once voiced concern to her father about it, asking if there was anything they might do to help her, more out of pity than anything else. Louis had smiled at her, said "Bless your heart," and told her that Joanna's descent could not be stopped, and had been a long time coming.

Alexa had never been alone in the living room with Joanna since she was a child. She shifted her weight to one foot, rubbing her upper arms as she cautiously entered the room.

"Hi, Mom," she said, as sweetly as she could, sliding her backpack off her shoulder and onto the floor.

Her mother was still. Alexa slowly approached her, as if she were a sleeping dragon. She rounded the corner of the couch, her eyes always on her mother's head, trying to catch a glimpse of the green eyes she had inherited. Those eyes were wide open, staring ahead unseeing. Her fingers tightly gripped the wineglass, and Alexa could see an empty bottle rolling around on the floor. Her mother's blonde hair was perfectly made, and there wasn't a smear in her makeup. She reminded Alexa of a wax statue.

And then, as if suddenly coming to life, Joanna turned her head and looked at her daughter. "Happy birthday, baby girl," she said with a sad smile.

"Mom, are you OK?"

Joanna closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes, baby, I'm fine…" She paused. "What does he call you?"

Alexa didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

"Your father," Joanna clarified. "Does he call you 'baby'?"

Alexa had never really thought about it. "No. He just calls me Lexa."

Joanna nodded. "Of course he does." She opened her arms. "Come here, baby girl."

Alexa hesitated. "Mom, is something wrong?"

Her mother shook her head. "No, no, no, dear. I just want a hug from my daughter on her birth… day." She hesitated because her tongue was having difficulty wrapping around the 'rth' of 'birth.'

Joanna was not only an alcoholic, but a skilled one. When she drank, her speech didn't slur, and her balance never wavered. Years of practice had coached her body in how to over annunciate and adjust to the shifting world when she was inebriated. This was something Alexa had learned over the past year. So when Joanna King's pronunciation began to waver, that's when Alexa knew it was bad. Nonetheless, she played the dutiful daughter and approached, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck as Joanna's hands came up behind her back. At first, it wasn't so bad. The smell of her mother's Chanel perfume mingled with the ripe odor of fermented grapes. But Alexa remembered her mother's perfume. It brought back deep, long forgotten memories of when she was a child, and a very small one, and her mother would swing her up into the air as Alexa giggled.

Joanna said now what she had said then: "You were my saving grace, baby." The only difference was that the tense had changed. As Alexa felt a single hot drop of water trickle onto her shoulder, her mother's arms constricted.

"Mom?"

Joanna leapt to her feet, refusing to let her daughter go. "We don't have much time," she whispered. "He'll be back soon enough."

"Mom!" Alexa struggled, but she had always been of small stature, and her mother was older and taller than she was. The alcohol acted like steroids and seemed to multiply not only her strength, but also her resolve as she dragged Alexa forcefully into the kitchen. Alexa let out a shriek as her mother adjusted her grip, keeping Alexa in a headlock under one arm and seizing a kitchen knife with the other.

Alexa's fingers flew to her mother's arm, her nails digging into the skin as she whipped her head around on her neck, trying to escape the vice grip of her mother's biceps.

"You have such a pretty face," her mother said, as if it were casual conversation. "And that's the problem, isn't it?"

Before Alexa even knew what happened, the whole left side of her face felt like it was cracking open as if a seam had split down the middle. The edges of the gash were searing, as if they were burning away like pages of a book, curling back into itself. She found herself gasping for air even as her mother released her. She stumbled backwards and fell onto the floor. She scrambled away from her mother like a crab until she reached the wall, where she hugged her knees and the tears began to flow.

In stark contrast to Alexa, Joanna was calm and composed. She turned on the water and began washing the knife in the sink. "I'm sorry, baby," she said. "I just want to protect you."

But Alexa knew her _real_ reasons. Her father had told her that Joanna hated her, that she was jealous. Alexa knew that Joanna was trying to steal Louis from her, to keep him all to herself, and she would never see him again.

Horrified and furious all at once, Alexa slowly rose to her feet. Joanna was humming as she took a sponge and washed the shiny metal of the blade. Alexa wasn't sure what to say, or do, and her face felt like it was peeling off. Finally, despair overwhelmed her and she ran upstairs to her room where her blood and tears stained her pillow.

* * *

They sat across from each other, neither of them really wanting to speak. Warrick wasn't eating, so Catherine reached a fork across the vast canyon between them and picked some egg off of his plate. Warrick didn't say anything about it; in fact, he didn't seem to notice that she'd done it at all. His eyes were gazing out the window, unfocussed, or perhaps seeing something that was beyond Catherine's perception.

"Warm up, Sugar?"

Wordlessly, Catherine slid her empty coffee cup towards the waitress who dutifully refilled it. Catherine pulled the mug towards her again and took a sip, eyeing Warrick curiously. She almost wanted to poke him with a stick to see if he was still alive. But she knew that her best bet would be to take her time, and let Warrick come around in his own way. When it came to Nick, or at least, when it came to talking about his relationship with Nick, Warrick was always reserved. It was a stark contrast to her experiences with Greg. When Nick and Greg were arguing, the whole lab knew it, and Greg would go on and on about how annoying he found the Texan to anyone who would listen. But when Warrick fought with Nick, it wasn't about venting and raging, it was more about finding his own space so that he could sort things out on his own. That was the fundamental difference between Nick's two best friends: one was an extrovert, who needed to be around people to recharge his brain and bounce ideas off of, and the other, an introvert, who much preferred keeping to himself in quiet reflection. It was probably one of the reasons Warrick and Greg had never really connected. But that didn't mean that he didn't care for Greg.

_"I'm worried about Greg. Sara said he froze up on the case with that little boy. He doesn't seem himself anymore."_

_"I wouldn't worry about Greg. Fastest learner I ever saw."_

_"That's not what worries me, Warrick. I just… I don't know if being a CSI is the best idea for him."_

_"Are you kidding? There's no better job for a guy like Greg. In this job, you need to find something to hold onto. Keep you grounded to reality, you know? Greg has the strongest anchor I can think of."_

_"What's that?"_

_"His humor."_

"What are we doing here, Catherine?"

His smooth, deep voice startled her out of her memories. "We're having breakfast at 3:00 in the afternoon. Or, at least, I'm having breakfast. Eat your food, you need your strength."

"I just can't figure it out…" Warrick said, clasping his hands together. "Last year… Everything was so fast paced. There was always something to do, and even if we thought we had a dead end, we didn't really, because there was always something else to follow up on. It was intense and terrifying, but we made it through, and we _got_ there. We got there, but now… Now, we're sitting in a diner eating breakfast while half of the LVPD is out in the city looking for leads, and the dayshift is going over the evidence we already catalogued to see if they can get anything new from it. It's not even a lack of evidence, we have _evidence_, what we lack is something to compare it to. But Brass has no more leads than we do, not without motive or connections. Lincoln Meyer and James Sherman had never met in their lives, they didn't even live in the same _city_…" Warrick rubbed his eyes with his hand.

Catherine reached across the table and took his other hand in her own, and the crack in the dam gave way. The hand over his eyes slid to his mouth as he bowed his head. His shoulders began to shake, moving up and down, but he made no sound. Catherine abandoned her seat and slid into the booth next to him, this time clutching his hand tightly with both of hers.

* * *

That night, when Louis came home and saw what his wife had done to his daughter, everything changed. Alexa told him everything that her mother had done and he flew downstairs in a rage. Alexa followed him, clinging to the railing as she watched the fight from the top of the stairs. Her mother had finished with the wine and now clutched a fresh bottle of vodka as she calmly ironed the clothes in the living room. Her husband approached her from behind and grabbed her drinking arm, yanking her away from the ironing board as he began yelling at her.

"What the _fuck_ is the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with me!" she exclaimed, as if this was a rhetorical question. "What _is_ the matter with me? Why do I _torture_ myself by staying in this house with _you_? Why do I let you _do_ what you _do _to our _daughter_? What _is_ the matter with me?"

"I mean it, Joanna, you touch her again, so help me _God_—"

"Listen to that, ladies and gentlemen!" Joanna cried incredulously. "Listen to Louis King act like _I'm_ the villain. So tell me, Lou, what _will_ you do to me, hm?" She widened her eyes at him, daringly as she brandished her iron around.

"I'll have you committed," Louis growled. "Shouldn't be too hard, you're a raving drunk who stabbed your own daughter!"

"Better one little scar than a lifetime of abuse from _you_," Joanna returned.

"You'll regret what you've done," Louis snarled, shaking the hand that held her wrist.

"Hm," she intoned, feigning thought. "Maybe you're right. But I know I won't regret this."

Her father's deep, reverberating screams sounded like the angels did when they fell from the sky. Alexa scrambled to her feet and grabbed the phone.

"Hello? 911? My drunk mother just burned by Dad in the chest with an iron."

It sounded simple when she said it, but was horrific to watch. Joanna had taken the iron and used it to push Louis away from her as hard as she could. It had worked. Louis was on the floor, barely moving, howling like an injured dog.

"It was set to linen," Joanna spat, then took another swig from the vodka bottle. Alexa ran into her room to hide.

The police took Joanna away that night. She raved about how her husband was sleeping with her daughter, but she was so drunk by that point it was hard to understand her. When the police did speak with Alexa about whether or not her father was inappropriate with her, Alexa insisted that her mother was very sick, and that her father loved her, and would never be inappropriate.

When Alexa and her father came home from the hospital, she hid from him. She told him she was worried he wouldn't think that she was pretty anymore. That's when he had taken the knife to his own face, showing her true selflessness, something she thought she would never see again as long as she lived.

* * *

She had lost him, several times. She had lost and lost and lost him, but now, he was found, and he was safe, and she was safe in his arms. She ran her hands down his bare chest as he quivered beneath her. Those strong, chiseled muscles, like they were before her mother had scarred him, and they were stunning. He wasn't perfect yet, but she was averse to altering such a beautiful body. Yes, the iron could wait. Tonight, they would play.

"I've learned some tricks while you've been away," she cooed. "I think you'll be quite proud of me."

"Alexa, don't…"

"I won't," she said, "I won't stop."

He inhaled sharply. "No, don't _start_."

She giggled. "You and your silly games. All right, Daddy, I'll play along." She unbuckled his jeans.

"Alexa, _please_…"

"Mm, and how are you going to stop me?" she purred, getting into her role. She pulled down the zipper.

"Alexa – I'm not _him_!"

"That's right," she said, her hands stroking up and down his chest. "I'm the bad girl who has you all tied up and you're my willing victim."

He played his part well. She could have sworn she saw actual terror in his eyes. "Snap out of it, girl, this isn't what you think."

"Do you remember…" she asked slowly, reaching inside, wrapping her fingers firmly around him. His whole body went rigid. He began to buck, but he was quite restrained.

"_Alexa, stop_!"

"… when Joanna came home…" She leaned down. Her nose was at his navel as she breathed into him, her hand slowly, sensuously moving up and down, twisting, tickling. She looked up, and saw his eyes shut tight, his face flushed red. It only intensified her longing. "And she caught us together?"

"Oh God…" he groaned. He sounded almost ill. "No… please, don't, Alexa… _Alexa_…"

"I never had a chance to finish," she said. "I know you weren't satisfied. But don't worry. Now that she's gone, we can have all the fun we want."

And they did. And he enjoyed it. Or, she thought he enjoyed it. He stayed awake for a while afterwards, but he never looked at her, despite how she pleaded. He wouldn't speak to her. She thought he must still be playing a game, because she knew her father loved her. So she curled up next to him like a cat so she could hear him breathing. She soon found sleep with him, but was eventually awoken again. His chest was shaking, and in the dark, she could hear him crying.


	7. Meet Me In St Louis

**_Author's Note_****:** Thanks buckets for those of you who are repeatedly reviewing, it really helps morale. Cheers, and keep reading! Some fun stuff ahead.

Chapter Seven: Meet Me In St. Louis

"You want to go to St. Louis?" Brass sounded doubtful as he shuffled the papers on his desk.

Grissom stood firm. "I… I don't have to go. In fact, I'd rather not. If we can find something here that will lead us to Nick, well, I'd like to be here when that happens. But someone _should_. We need to look deeper into Dean Rogan's life."

"Adams and the SLMPD already went through all of that," Brass assured him. "They did their due diligence. Her file on that guy is a mile high – you should know, you've been looking at it all day. Did you get _any_ sleep, Gil?"

Grissom opened his mouth to respond, but Sara beat him to it. "But we have new information, info that Detective Adams and the SLMPD didn't have before. Our killer's a woman. That not only changes the profile, it changes everything."

Brass sighed. "OK, well, Adams is probably sleeping by now, but—"

"Wake her up," Sara said, as if it were as simple as that.

Brass glared at her. "Do you know what Riley Adams has been doing all day? She's been out there with our officers questioning potential witnesses, expanding her profile, and on the phone with St. Louis. She came back here covered in sweat with blue slushy in her hair and staining her shirt." Sara looked about to ask, but Brass cut her off. "I don't know, she wouldn't tell me about it. The point is, I'm inclined to let her take her break. Listen – I'm taking this as seriously as you are. You want to send someone to St. Louis? Fine. Adams will meet you there."

And then, a small voice from behind them all said, "I'll go."

Grissom and Sara turned, and Brass looked up to see Greg hovering in the doorway. He fully entered the room, and for a moment no one said anything. Then, Brass nodded.

"Sure, I'll let St. Louis know you'll be on your way."

"Great," Greg said. "Any of you fine folk wanna give me a ride to the airport?"

* * *

Riley stepped out of the bathroom, dabbing her wet hair with the towel and turning on the television. She grabbed her brush off of the desk and sat down on the edge of the hotel bed, brushing out her hair as she channel surfed. She tried to avoid any of the local news channels. She was afraid of the stories they'd be telling. Instead, she settled on a familiar sitcom.

It felt good to unwind after a long day of hard work, which equaled absolutely nothing. No surveillance photos picked up any suspicious characters carrying a body, and no one who was working last night would admit to seeing anything strange. She knew she didn't have long before she needed to put her nose back to the grindstone. She did thank her lucky stars that she didn't know Nick Stokes personally, though. She felt that her presence was a necessary one for the Las Vegas team, as she provided an outsider's perspective, an impartial one that could potentially see things that they would miss. Unfortunately, she didn't feel like she had been very useful to them today.

When her hair was brushed and she was bored of the sitcom, she switched off the television and fell back onto the bed. Her eyes fell closed, and she felt the rest of her body following them into unconsciousness when she was jarred awake by the loudly ringing phone on her bedside table. Suppressing a groan, she reached for it and held it to her ear.

"Adams."

"Did I wake you?"

She smiled. "Jim Brass. Nope, just watching some TV. What's up?"

"Greg is on his way to the airport right now," Brass said. "I was just going to leave you a voicemail giving you the details."

Riley sat up. "Where's he going?"

"St. Louis," Brass said. "You can join him in a few hours."

"No, forget that," said Riley as she got to her feet. "I'll go now."

"I already talked to SLMPD and they said—"

"They don't _know_ him," Riley said, "_and_ he's not a detective."

"So?"

"Weren't you the one who described my precinct as cliquish?"

Brass paused. "Oh. I see."

"Yeah," Riley said as she pulled on her jeans. "Trust me, things will go a lot smoother if I'm there with him. Tell him to get two tickets for the plane. I'll meet him there."

* * *

When she arrived at the airport, she spotted Greg at the check-in desk and immediately jogged up to him. She got there just as he turned around holding the tickets, and he looked up at her, mildly surprised.

"How'd you get here so fast?"

"My hotel is literally right next to this place."

But Greg was unconvinced. "Brass said you were asleep. How did you—"

"It's a nonissue," Riley said. "Let's hit the security line."

Riley hated airports. She didn't mind airplanes, it was the airports she couldn't stand. All that standing around, waiting, and not moving anywhere... At least when she was sitting around waiting on a plane, she was _going_ somewhere. As she and Greg waited wordlessly in the security line that refused to budge for an hour, she began to tap her hand against her thigh, growing more agitated by the second.

In contrast, Greg was reserved, almost vacant. Once in a while, he would crane his neck and stare with glassy eyes up at the front of the line, but that was the only sign he gave of his thoughts on the subject. If Riley had known him better, she may have realized how unusual this was. But as she didn't, she assumed he was just being patient, never knowing that patience was a virtue Greg had never learned. Neither had Riley. Finally, she burst.

"Come on," she said, seizing Greg by the wrist and ducking under one of the security divides.

"Hey!" a TSA employee shouted as she pushed her way past equally irritated people in the lines. She cut across the snaking queues, ducking under the black seatbelts that delineated them. And all the while, the TSA called out to them until they reached the one checking passports.

"Ma'am, you're going to have to wait your turn like everyone else," he told her.

She flashed her badge. "We have urgent business in St. Louis and our plane leaves in thirty minutes."

The TSA agent sighed. "Do you have your boarding pass?"

"_Yes_, I have my boarding pass," Riley retorted, then her heart began to beat faster. She dug around in the pockets of her jeans and her jacket but couldn't seem to locate it. "It's… um…"

"Here," she heard Greg say as he handed over the two tickets.

"ID?"

Riley slammed her badge on the podium in front of him. The TSA agent cocked an eyebrow.

"_Photo_ ID?"

Riley wrinkled her nose in distaste, then fished out her wallet and showed him her driver's license. Greg already had his out. The TSA agent flashed a purple light over the IDs. He handed Greg back his and his boarding pass.

"Ma'am, this license is expired."

"What?" Riley gaped, then snatched up her license. She could hardly argue with him. Apparently, it had expired last month. The TSAs in St. Louis hadn't mentioned it when she came to Vegas. She sighed. "Does it matter? It's ID."

"You should get that renewed," said the agent.

"For Christ's sake, a man's life is in danger, do you want me to tell the media that it was the Vegas TSA who got him killed?"

The agent clicked his tongue as he wrote something on her ticket. "What is it with you PD types? Everything's always more important than what we do. Well you know what? What we do is important too. Homeland security's just a few words to you, but it's what I do every day."

The look of affronted shock must have betrayed her because before she could tell him that a police academy drop out who abuses his power by humiliating every airport patron that he possibly could was the farthest thing from homeland security, Greg squeezed her hand and pushed her towards the metal detectors.

"You're absolutely right, sir, thank you so much for your patience."

Riley threw her bag down onto the conveyer belt. "Why did you tell him that? Guy's nothing but a bitter, washed up—"

"Watch it, Riley," Greg whispered. "We want to get on the plane, not be held in contempt by security." He emptied his pockets and walked through the metal detector without a hitch. Riley glared at him before striding through the detectors herself. Though she heard it beep, she ignored it.

"Ma'am, could you please empty your pockets and step through again?"

Grumbling, she walked back through and realized she'd neglected to take off her badge. She slammed it into an empty bin by the metal detector and walked through again. And just as before, somehow, she'd set it off.

"Could you step to the side, ma'am?"

"I'm a cop," she said, seizing her badge to prove it. "Can I go now?"

"To the side, ma'am." He watched her with a blank expression. Greg was already shouldering his bag, which had come through the x-ray with no problems. Riley managed an ugly stare.

"You're not serious. I need to be on that plane to St. Louis _tonight_, _sir_." She spat the polite title with venom.

"You won't get there any faster by arguing with me," the TSA agent insisted.

Riley opened her mouth to retort when she noticed a female agent standing next to her with a handheld metal detector. "Oh, for the love of…" She bit her tongue and followed the woman to a mat with two yellow footprints. She followed protocol, spreading her legs as the agent ran the device over her body. She stared at a far corner of the ceiling, bitterly.

"She's clean," the female agent announced.

"Told you." Riley made a point to shoot daggers at the TSA agent by the metal detector as she took back her things at the end of the conveyer belt.

"We could have been at the gate by now," Greg mumbled as they made their way off to the gate. "Why can't you just cooperate?"

Riley gaped. "Are you kidding?"

Greg said nothing, he simply walked faster to the gate.

* * *

Alexa waited for a second, afraid to move. And then, she spoke. "I know why you're crying."

There was a sniff, and then a shuddering intake of breath which he soon sighed out again. "I thought… you were asleep."

She chose her words carefully. "I think I've been asleep for a long time."

He shifted beside her. She knew that he understood what she meant, but he didn't say anything.

So she spoke instead. "You probably don't want to be near me right now."

Again, there was no answer. He had gone back to his silent treatment. She understood. She slowly sat up and looked down at him. A part of her still saw her father in his face and it made her shiver. "I'm… sorry."

"Don't." It was one word, one simple word, but it was uttered with so much revulsion, she didn't know if she could stand it.

"I wasn't always like this…" she said, her fingers snaking into her hair as she closed her eyes. "This… schism. In me. It's a recent thing. I wasn't always… you know." She looked at him, trying to see any sort of response in the dark. But he was still. She continued anyway. "For a really long time, I… I was OK. I wasn't great, but I was OK. I-I-I take these… pills, you know? For… whatever it is I have, I take pills. I haven't been taking them. That's the problem." She waited for him to ask why. He didn't. So she didn't explain. "When I killed Dean… I thought that I was dead for sure. I would go to prison, and they would lock me up. And I thought that I should start taking the pills again. But then… but then… but then, this really sinister… _thing_ came over me. I can't even describe it. But it was, like, this thought… This big, overbearing thought that wouldn't go away, and it told me… _exactly_ what to do. And it told me that I needed to find him again… my father. It told me that he was out there, everywhere, hiding from me, and that if I found him, he would fix it, if I found him, I could be safe again…" She sighed and closed her eyes a minute before opening them again and looking down at him. She was overcome with a wave of deep affection for this man she barely knew, whom she sometimes was absolutely convinced was her father, but other times knew, she _knew_, that he was a man she could never keep. "I know you aren't him. Sometimes, I do, I mean. Like now. But even… even when I don't… know, I mean. Even when I don't know you're not him, there's… there's always something, really, _really_ deep inside me that notices something's not right. Do you… do you think that means that there's… hope? For me?" Again, she waited, again, no response. She dared to inch closer to him, and he jolted away from her. "Nick?" she begged.

Using his name seemed to register something in him and he actually turned his head to look at her for the first time. "Alexa…" he began, as if uncertain of what to say. And then, he laughed. It was a curt, mirthless laugh, but it came from the gut. "Oh God, Alexa... You're asking… _me_ if there's hope for _you_ when I…" He looked away from her again. "When I don't even…"

She seemed to know what he was trying to say. She sat back on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. "You and me, huh, what a pair? Couple of hopeless…" She searched for the word, but she couldn't find it. Her mind was slipping into other corners of her reality. She looked down and smiled at the man before her. She inched up close to him and placed a loving hand on his chest.

"Look at that, Daddy," she said. "I can feel your heart beating."

She heard him stifle a sob, one that she deduced was from the sheer joy of her proximity. And then, he surprised her.

"Yeah," he said, his voice strained. "Me too."

* * *

It was only a three hour flight, but it felt infinitely longer to Greg. He didn't order any drinks, and he didn't talk to the flight attendants, and he didn't watch the in-flight entertainment. He didn't even know what it was. He was happy to just stare out the window.

Beside him, Riley was ordering a slew of alcoholic drinks, and probably racking up quite a bill in the meantime. When Greg had commented on her looseness with her cash, she had replied, "I got two words for you: per diem."

Greg snorted, knowing she would claim these drinks as part of her daily expenditures, and wondered if the SLMPD would foot the bill to fuel what he deduced was the beginning of an alcohol addiction. Still, he let her have her drinks, because she let him have his silence. Or, at least, until her third gin and tonic.

"You always this…" she moved her hand in a circle in the air, "way? Or is something up?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said.

"'Cause, you know…" she began. "Word at yer lab is you used to be this… loud and obnoxious tech who took the somber out of every case."

"I was never _obnoxious_…" But even as he said it, he knew it was probably a lie. "Who said that anyway?"

"I forget yer names," Riley said, dismissively. "You're all CSIs to me. Uh… the girl. Not the blonde one, the other one."

Greg sighed and turned to his window again. "Yeah, she would call me obnoxious." But he smiled as he said it.

"So?" Riley prompted.

Greg glanced her way, but did not turn his head away from the window. "So what?"

"Happened?" Riley finished. "So what happened?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Greg muttered.

"Mm, yes you do," she said, pointing a finger at him. "See, at first, I thought you were just being quiet and toned down 'cause that's just who you were. But then I remembered what Brown Eyes said about you being obnoxious, and I was thinking, sheesh, if anyone's been obnoxious on this trip, it's been me. So what's your deal, CSI?"

Greg didn't respond, but he suddenly wished that he wasn't sitting next to a drunk detective.

Riley sighed and leaned back in her seat. "OK, like, for example. Why are you going to St. Louis?"

"So I can help Nick."

She made a sound like a game show buzzer. "Wrong. I can see right through that. Jim told me that, uh, that your other friends, they didn't wanna go because they wanted to do more in Vegas, find him in _Vegas_, because where is your friend, most likely? In _Vegas_. The only thing we're looking for in St. Louis is information that can lead to your friend. Who, by the way, is in _Vegas_. So why did you want to go to St. Louis? Why not stay with your other CSI chums in Vegas so that you can be there when they rescue him?"

Greg leaned his head back in the seat. "Because Nick's not in Vegas anymore."

This clearly threw her. "Of course he's in Vegas, where else would he be? Unless _you_ know more than you're telling me." The tone in her voice was playful, but Greg closed his eyes.

"No," he said. "Nick's not in Vegas. His… body is."

This finally managed to silence Riley. She turned to face forward in her seat. And then, she hiccupped. But she was quiet for another minute. "You think he's dead."

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

She paused. "Greg, our killer. She keeps these men alive for three days." She looked at her watch. "It's ten o'clock. Hasn't even been twenty-four hours."

Greg shook his head. "He's dead. He's dead, I know that he is."

"Or are you just convincing yourself so that you won't feel it if it ends up to be true?" Riley said.

Greg buried his face in his hands and exhaled. "I told you, I didn't want to talk about it."

Riley put down her glass on her tray table. "Oh my God… you really think he's dead, don't you?"

"It's not because I want him to be," Greg muttered. "Not like you said, like I'm trying to… prepare myself. It's because, Riley… Riley, if he isn't dead, then what is she doing to him? What does she do to them for three days before she kills them?" He shivered. "No. I can't think about it."

Riley stopped the flight attendant as he passed. "I need one more gin and tonic."

"Ma'am, you've had three already."

Riley paused. Greg looked up. "It's not for me," she said. "It's for him."

* * *

Alexa seemed content with his silence. Nick wasn't sure why, but it made it easier. She didn't feel compelled to fill it with babbling or more sickeningly sweet coos and kisses. He couldn't stand her kisses. Every time her lips came near his skin, his entire body tensed. She never seemed to notice, or seemed to misinterpret it as a good sign. It almost made it worse, that she thought he enjoyed it.

He had no idea how long he had been with her. Her disturbing sweetness was strange enough, but he wondered what would happen when she turned on him. Her previous victims told him that it was inevitable, and she had outright told him she'd kill him eventually. Nick wasn't worried with _if_ so much as _when_, and if there was any way he could reach her rational side before it happened.

He should have taken his advantage when she tried speaking to him earlier, but there was too much going on in his head at that point in time. He couldn't look at her. He could barely speak to her. But she had reached out to him. She had tried to explain herself, even relate. What's worse, Nick felt himself reciprocating. He felt sorry for her. _He_ felt sorry for _her_. And he didn't know why.

"Alexa…" he breathed, slowly.

She shifted beside him, placing her hands flat on his chest and her chin on top of them. "Hm?"

"Tell me a story," he said. "Tell me a story… about us."

Her eyes grew wider. "About us?"

"That's right…" He tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Like… our first… time." It was hard to say. "Tell me about our first time… together. How old were you?"

She smiled. "I was eight," she said, and Nick almost winced, "and I was nervous. Even though you told me not to be, I was, and you told me I would like it, but…" She held her breath. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. "Daddy, can I tell you something?"

Nick grit his teeth, closed his eyes and nodded. "Of course you can, sweetheart."

She looked at him with big, doe-like eyes. "Daddy, I… I didn't. I'm so sorry, Daddy. I said I did. I let you… I mean, I let you teach me. I let you show me, and I tried to be a good little girl, Daddy, but I couldn't stand it. It hurt, Daddy. It hurt so much, and I wanted it to stop. But I didn't tell you, because… because I didn't want you to be mad at me." She gripped his shirt in her hands and clenched them into fists. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. Do you hate me?"

"No, sweetheart." And what surprised Nick the most, was that answer took the least amount of effort to say convincingly. "No, I don't hate you."

"But I learned, Daddy," Alexa said, smiling through her tears. "I swear, I did, I learned to like it, like you said I would. It took a while. It did, but I realized, I realized you were my Daddy. You were my Daddy, and you would never do anything to hurt me."

Bile rose in Nick's throat and he couldn't look at her anymore. The fire was burning in his chest again, a loathing so deep and ancient that it could never be buried completely. But it wasn't directed at her. No, Nick didn't hate her. He hated the man she thought he was. And then, a thought occurred to him.

"Alexa," he said slowly. "You never have to apologize to me." The smile that spread across her features only encouraged him. "It's my fault. All of it." And now, he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice. "Everything I ever did that hurt you… it was wrong. And I'm sorry."

Little by little, the smile on her face slowly faded. "You mean… you don't really… love me?"

Nick's breath caught in his throat. "Alexa, I mean that if I really loved you, I would have never done those things to you."

Her eyes welled with tears, and Nick felt strangely as if he'd just told her that there was no Santa Claus, which, in a way, he had. "Don't say that, Daddy…" she whispered.

"Alexa, I'm only saying this now… because…" Why _was_ he saying this now? "Because I care about you. I care about you now more than I ever did before, and do you know why?"

She blinked. Her sad face twisted into one of innocent confusion and she shook her head.

Nick took a deep breath. "Because I don't want you to hurt anymore. I didn't care if I hurt you back then."

"That's not true!" Alexa protested, climbing on top of him again as she grinned. "It's not, remember? Remember, you protected me from Mamma?"

Nick frowned. "What did your _mother_ do to you?" he breathed.

Her grin wavered slightly and she let out a curt, "Huh. Right. What she did to me? Plain as the scar on both our faces."

"_She_ did that?" Nick gasped.

Alexa nodded. "To me. To make me less pretty, so you wouldn't want me. She wanted you all to herself, but you know what you did? Oh, Daddy… oh, beautiful, _beautiful_ Daddy!"

Whatever Nick had done, it had been the wrong choice. She was touching him all over and goosebumps erupted at her touch. His whole body seemed to ripple with tension as grit his teeth and breathed heavily through his nose.

"No, sweetheart," he managed to say slowly. "Not now."

"But I want to," she said, as if that was the only reason to do it.

"Daddy's tired, Alexa." He hated saying it that way. But somehow, it made her listen, like none of his other pleas had before. She withdrew her hands and nodded, but she did not get off of him.

"You cut your own face," Alexa said. "It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

Nick knew there was no reasoning with her if she truly believed that. Still, he had tapped into something here. Maybe he could take advantage of it.

"Alexa…" he began slowly. "Could you untie Daddy?"

She frowned, then slowly shook her head. "No… No. You'll just leave me again."

"But I love you, Alexa," Nick persisted. "Why would I leave you?"

"You left me before," she said. "Mamma – Joanna, she _made_ you leave me, she _stole _you away. What if she takes you again? No, no, no, I'm sorry, Daddy, but you're safer here."

Nick was growing impatient as he forced a smile. "Alexa? Darling? Untie Daddy now."

"It's not safe," she said. "Not yet." And then, a thought occurred to her. "I need to remind you what she did to you…"

"What?" Nick uttered. "What? What did she do to me?"

She rolled off of Nick and swung her legs over the bed. "If I remind you what she did to you, you'll never let her take you again." She nodded. "I should have thought of it before."

"Alexa?"

"Stay right there," she said. She opened the closet and pulled out an ironing board, on top of which sat an old, rusting clothing iron. As she plugged it into the wall, Nick's heart began to palpitate. He remembered Lincoln Meyer, and he remembered James Sherman, and he knew exactly what she planned to do with that iron.

* * *

Walking into the St. Louis Precinct was like walking through the looking glass to Greg. Riley, who had sobered up in the final hours of the flight, slipped back into her old role as if she had never left.

"OK, folks, we have a missing LVPD agent in Vegas and our best bet is Dean Rogan, what are my bids?" Riley called out loudly as she strode through the detectives' desks of the precinct. She stopped at the end of the aisle and spun around, looking expectantly at a couple other detectives.

"Got Gina Garelli on the line," a sandy-haired man called from one desk. "Says she kept a list of the other guys and girls she knew her boyfriend was schtupping."

Riley pointed at him. "Yes, Ash, great. Why didn't she give it to us before?"

"They're only first names," Ash replied, "and she says she thought she used the list to roll a 'cigarette'." He made a point to put air quotes around the word "cigarette" as he balanced the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

"Take the names," Riley told him. "Anybody else?"

"What about Rogan's debts?" asked a Latino detective as he typed into his computer. "You know – the gambling stuff? Maybe he met this girl in Vegas on a binge?"

"Raf, that is what I'm talking about," Riley said. "Connections. Nice. Check and see if Rogan had any flights to or from Vegas in the past year. Ash!"

Ash held a hand over his phone. "Yeah, boss?"

"Ask Gina if she knows if any of those girls are from the Vegas area."

Riley continued in this manner, conducting the detectives around her like an orchestra as she continued to brainstorm and shoot out ideas that her team could expound upon. Greg felt like an audience treated to a secret show. Riley, who had been stern and reserved in Vegas, had performed a complete one-eighty, just walking in and taking charge of these other detectives around her, who seemed to know the second that she walked in the door exactly what she was looking for. Greg knew she must have been coordinating with them by phone from Vegas, but never had he seen anyone work so fast. It was like watching a skilled dancer execute her moves perfectly, and Greg was in awe. He had to sit down in a chair.

"Off-putting, isn't it?" a voice beside him said. Greg looked up to see an olive-skinned woman with black ringlets tumbling down her back. "How comfortable she looks up there? Never truly happy unless she's chin-deep in a case. That's our Riley."

Greg shook his head. "That's not _our_ Riley," he said.

She sighed, then gave him a quirky smile. "You must be from Vegas."

Greg suddenly remembered his manners. He got to his feet and held out a hand. "Greg Sanders. Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Crime Lab?" the woman repeated as she took his offered hand. "Did you… know the guy that was taken?"

Greg felt a lump rise in his throat. He swallowed it. "We knew each other," he confessed.

She nodded, knowingly. "Right. Riley and I? We kinda know each other, too."

"Noemi!" Riley barked authoritatively. "Get your ass over here! You think you can hide from me?"

Noemi winked at Greg before looking back at Riley and replying, "Not at all, girl. So what's the deal? Kicked out of Vegas already?"

"Hey Rafael, you wanna trade partners?" Riley asked. "Mine's a real pain in the—"

"Stop slacking off, Riley, we got a victim to find," Noemi said as she strolled down the aisle.

Riley's smile grew sad. "Noems is right. Look, the guys in Vegas have been nothing but awesome to me, giving me full access to their cases." She caught Greg's eye at the other end of the aisle. "I wanna pay them back for that hospitality. Everyone, that man over there's Greg Sanders, from the Vegas Lab."

Ash wrinkled his nose. "He's a fungoid?"

Riley slapped him and he expressed his distaste with a curse. "No, he's not a fungoid, he's a CSI, chuckles."

One of the other detectives spoke up, "Wait, but I thought that's what we called all CS—"

"No, Haverman, shut up," Riley hissed, looking almost embarrassed. "I want everyone to be nice to Greg while we're here."

"What do you mean 'while _we're_ here'?" Rafael asked slowly.

"Because we have a flight back to Vegas in six hours," Riley replied. "Which _means_ we're wasting time."

"Why are you going back to Vegas?" Noemi asked.

"Because the case isn't closed," Riley told her, as if it were obvious. "I have to go back."

"Wouldn't your part be done, though?" Noemi pressed. "You gave them all the info we had, they gave you what they had. You stay here, check out things on this end, and they—"

Riley held up a hand to stop her. "Noemi, can we talk about this later? You said it yourself…" Her eyes lingered on Greg. "We have a victim to save."


	8. Vegas or Bust

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks Mma63 and burrollie for your high-spirited reviews. I'm glad you're still with me this far in. Allusions to Riley history are further explored in a "spin-off"/prequel/sequel to be released after this story is complete, which will focus on Riley and her life in St. Louis before she moved to Vegas... and why. So there are some questions raised concerning Riley and her colleagues in this story that will be answered there, because it was too big of a side-plot to include here. Please review, it makes me happy, and does motivate me to post a few days earlier.

Chapter Eight: Vegas or Bust

The scalding steel fused with Nick's flesh and he let out a scream so loud, he was sure it'd bring the building crumbling down. He could feel his skin bubbling and bursting and evaporating away as the blood vessels that ran just beneath it sizzled and the capillaries popped, obliterated altogether.

The woman inflicting this damage ripped the iron away from his skin almost as quickly as she had applied it and set it back on the ironing board, seizing an ointment off of the bedside table and tending to the wound she'd just inflicted. The liquid provided another startling shock to Nick's reeling system and it hissed as the cool liquid came in contact with the crackling skin. He arched his back and felt the ointment drizzle down his sides in rivulets as he gasped for air. He battled his bonds again, his ankles and wrists aching from the strain and the bruises he was sure he was making worse. She straddled his hips. She worked soundlessly, or perhaps Nick had gone deaf. She gave him two pills and a glass of water. He didn't care anymore if they would kill him, he just wanted the pain to stop. She wrapped his chest in heavy bandages, which was difficult to do with Nick lying on his back. But she managed, and he raised his back for her to allow the bandages to go through. Slowly, the pain slithered away, draining out of him into numbness. His breathing returned to normal and he watched her delicate fingers work. Her eyes were set, sadness somewhere in those soft green hues that reminded Nick of a tropical forest canopy, with varying shadows of sunlit leaves. And then, like the beginning of a monsoon, he saw a single drop leak from the corner of those eyes.

It didn't take long before she was bawling, clutching the unused bandages to her chest, bending her head over him, her hair falling like a veil around her face. Nick watched her back heave up and down as she gasped and sobbed and grappled with some invisible force. He was so tired, but so lightheaded. In his dazed and amenable state, he empathized. He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair, but when he tried he was greeted with the harsh reminder that he was restrained.

He felt her clutch his shoulders and closed his eyes, making her whisper all the easier to hear. "I don't want to hurt you anymore."

Without opening his eyes, Nick uttered, "Then _don't_."

"If only it were that simple…"

"And why isn't it?" Nick breathed. The burn on his chest began to tingle like wind chimes. He tried to ignore it.

"I'm damaged…" she whispered. "Broken. Ruined beyond repair."

"I can fix you."

She was quiet a moment. "Tell me about your life."

"Born in Dallas…" Nick began, slowly. "Raised in Austin. Kid brother to five sisters and one brother. We used to be close. None of us really talk anymore."

"That's too bad…" Alexa muttered.

"My parents…" Nick continued. "They… call me. A lot. We… we're close. Love 'em with every cell that I have in me."

Alexa leaned her forehead against his, and Nick found he didn't mind. He felt her tears spill onto his cheeks, or perhaps they were his own. He couldn't tell. "Do you love your mother?"

"She still calls me her favorite," Nick confessed, smiling at the memory of her voice. "Old joke was that she kept trying for the perfect child, and she could finally stop when she had me."

"Are you, really?" Alexa asked. "Her favorite?"

"Dunno," Nick muttered, turning his head to the side. "But I have a sneaking suspicion she says the same thing to all her kids. Still… thought that counts and all."

"And your father?" Alexa pressed. "What do you think of him?"

"Cisco…" Nick breathed, his smile turning slightly goofy.

Alexa straightened. "I didn't give you _that _many pills." Her hand cupped his cheek. It wasn't desperate, or forceful, or sexual, but delicate and tender.

Nick laughed. "_The Cisco Kid_," he explained. "Probably… before your time."

She brushed the hair away from his sweat-drenched forehead. "I don't understand the connection."

"It was his favorite," Nick explained. "My first day of school, I didn't wanna go. I asked him why I needed to leave Mom at home all by herself when she needed me to help her. I was scared, of the teacher, and the students, and… yeah, you know. Dad said I needed to learn everything the world had to offer, so I asked him to name one thing I should learn and why. That's when he showed me his old comics. He said I needed to go to school so that I could learn how to read them. I read every last one of them by the end of first grade. Just because I knew… they were his favorite." Nick felt his throat constrict. He coughed to open it. "I wanted to make him… proud of me."

Alexa rolled off of Nick and lay next to him on the bed. Nick turned his head and opened his eyes to look at her. She was staring up at the bed's canopy. "On my first day of school, I hid under the teacher's desk all morning. They had to call my mother back in to coax me out of there. She was angry, because she would be late for work, but I remember when she saw my face, all she did was smile. And she said to me… 'There's nothing fun to do under that desk, baby. And I know my little explorer. Why don't you come out from under there and discover new worlds?'" Alexa sighed. "She had my stuffed rabbit, Alfie. She told me that Alfie had secret powers, and that if anything bad or scary ever happened, just to tell him, and he would tell her instantly, and she would know, and she would come running…" Alexa rolled over onto her side, so that her back was to Nick as she spoke to the wall. "When my father… When it started… I ran into my room, and I locked my door, and I found Alfie and curled up with him under my covers, and I told him everything, whispered it into his long ears. But when my mother came home that night, she didn't do… _anything_. It never occurred to me that she didn't get Alfie's message. So I always thought… she just didn't care."

Nick was quiet as her words sank into his brain, triggering his own memories, his own nightmares, and he swallowed. "Alexa…" He wasn't sure what to say. A part of him wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how. A part of him wanted to slap her, bring her to her senses, scream at her to let him go. And another part of him was afraid that she would slip away, and he would lose this side of her again, and she would kill him.

"Do you have friends, Nick?"

Nick didn't answer. He turned his head to the side. He felt as if his torso wasn't attached to his body. He could feel his arms and legs, but he was missing his middle, his stomach, his lungs, his heart…

"Do you?" he replied.

He heard her turn again, falling onto her back. He turned his head to look at her, only to find her head turned, looking at him. "No… not really."

Nick closed his eyes. "I have friends."

"They'll… be upset?" Alexa asked, turning her body fully towards Nick and propping herself up on her elbow. "When they find out what I did to you?"

Nick nodded. "I reckon so… They'll be out for blood, Alexa. Bad idea, taking a guy with cops for friends."

She nodded, as if she expected this. "I deserve to go to prison."

"You _deserve_ to go to a psychiatric center," Nick returned.

"A nuthouse," Alexa said, flatly.

Nick smiled. "Funny farm."

And then, she smiled, too. "Loony bin."

"Crazy box."

"Rubber room."

"A mental health facility." Nick offered her a toothy grin, and she laughed. It was more of a bark than a giggle, loud and unabashed. It was the first time Nick had heard her make such a noise. When she was done, she curled her fingers and brought her hands close to her chest as she watched him with pursed lips.

"Why couldn't I have met you before Dean?" she asked.

Nick tried to shrug, but the act of trying only reminded him that he was bound, that he wasn't here of his own free will, that he wasn't talking to a normal girl. "Why did you kill him? I mean… You said you were OK before. What changed?"

He saw her eyes glaze over, and he tensed. He knew what that meant. The little frightened little girl was chasing the jaded woman away.

But when she spoke, it was with a woman's voice. "Dean was a whole world," she said. "The first one I'd found after my father destroyed my own."

"That's not a reason to kill someone," Nick pointed out.

"On its own?" Alexa said. "Maybe not. But I don't think you can ever forgive someone for making you fall in love with them…" Her voice grew smaller. She brought her knees up and closed her eyes. She slowly smiled, and when she opened them, she looked at him with different, hungrier eyes.

* * *

Riley spent the majority of the evening at her desk, crosschecking names on the list provided to her by Dean Rogan's girlfriend with passenger manifests on flights to and from Las Vegas, as well as following up on each and every other lead they could think of. The playful, jovial atmosphere in the precinct slowly dissipated as the detectives grew quieter and quieter, their ideas becoming few and far between. When Riley snapped her fingers, waiting for an instantaneous idea from one of her peers, more often than not she was greeted with silence.

As it turned out, Greg had been the perfect ambassador to the St. Louis Crime Lab. While they had refused to deal with the detectives, Greg had managed to build a bridge between the two divisions and was able to get hands-on immediate access to any piece of evidence and results that he wanted. Unfortunately, he was also coming up empty.

He dragged his feet into the St. Louis precinct at four in the morning to find everyone gone except Riley, who had fallen asleep on her arm at her desk. Greg smiled sadly, though his stomach was twisting, his mind trying to figure out where in the world Nick could possibly be and what he might be going through. He approached her desk and put a hand on her shoulder. She awoke with a jolt, blinking repeatedly before stretching.

"Oh…" she said, when she caught sight of Greg. Her face flushed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't slacking off, I swear, I was—"

"Up for almost twenty-four hours straight," Greg finished for her, "and straining your eyes looking for connections that aren't there. Let's go home, Riley."

She nodded. "What time is it?"

Greg told her.

She sighed. "I have a flight scheduled to leave in two and a half hours. I just hate to go back there empty handed, you know?"

"I know."

She ran a hand through her hair. "OK. So, have you called Brass and them?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Greg shook his head slowly and weakly shrugged. "And… it's cold. Like ice."

"Brass said you guys went through this before…" Riley began, carefully. "How did you find him last year?"

"We had the guy that did it," Greg said. "Stronger leads… and he wanted something from us. Just made it… easier. This woman… if she even _is_ a woman… She just wants Nick. And she has him, and now, she's disappeared off the face of the earth and taken him with her." His hand flew up to cover his mouth as he shook his head. "I just… I wish I knew what to do."

Sighing, Riley rose to her feet and put a kind hand on Greg's shoulder. "Remember. It's only day two. We have time. We can't give up."

A door closed and Greg saw Riley look up at something over his shoulder. She didn't say anything, but footsteps stopped behind him.

"You going back?" It was Noemi's voice. Greg turned to look at her. She was standing before them with her arms folded.

Riley stepped forward to stand next to Greg. "I need to see this through, Noemi. For Link."

Noemi nodded, seeming to understand. "You keep taking these out of state assignments, Riley. Can't help but take it personally."

Riley's hands came up to rub her eyes. "Noems… Now's really not a good time." She turned back to her desk and started gathering up all her files, photos and evidence.

"OK," Noemi said. "Just promise me you'll call me when you get back?"

Riley looked up. Her eyes were tired. She just nodded. "Mm hm," she said quickly, then walked past her partner. "Come on, Greg. We have a plane to catch."

"Ash wants a t-shirt," Noemi called at their retreating backs. "Make it something girly, would you?"

* * *

Riley was the one who sat in silence on the plane ride back. After everything, Greg was curious at her behavior. When they had first met, he'd had her pegged as a hard-nosed detective who wanted to get the facts and solve her case and deal with as few people in between those two things as possible. But in St. Louis, she seemed almost social as she slid back into the machine, working and joking with colleagues she must have known for years.

"Why _are_ you coming back with me, Riley?" Greg asked.

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "I have to finish the—"

"No," Greg interrupted. "That's just what you told your friends."

Riley turned to him and smiled. "No, it's true."

"Maybe," Greg conceded. "But there's something else."

Riley sighed. "It's just Noemi. She gets possessive, that's all. I just need my breathing room."

"She's your partner, right?" Greg said. "Maybe she just… feels protective over you."

Riley rolled her eyes. "Hm. Yeah. Maybe. She's hard to explain, if you don't know her. One of those people that burns so brightly... but if you stare at her too long, you'll go blind." She turned to Greg. "You OK?"

Greg sighed and nodded when he said, "Nope."

Riley leaned back in her seat. "Me neither." Her hand came up to cover his on the armrest. He looked down at her soft, ivory fingers, which so fully seemed to encompass his.

"You have big hands," he remarked.

"That's hot," she returned.

He looked up to see the skeptical sarcasm all over her face, and he loved it much better than her faraway quiet. "Don't worry about it. Apparently, I'm fat."

"Whoever told you that must be anorexic," Riley whispered. Greg pulled his hand away. Riley shifted. "Oh. Right… sorry. I forgot."

Greg shrugged, then slowly turned to look at her again. "So you don't think I'm fat?"

"What are you, a teenage girl?"

"Would you _like_ me to be a teenage girl?"

Riley snorted. "You are _really_ bad at flirting."

"Wasn't flirting," Greg said. "Just trying to make you laugh."

"Oh…" said Riley, puckering her lips. "Well… that's too bad. Because _I_ was flirting." She took his hand in hers again.

Greg was suddenly reluctant. "Riley…" He watched her unbuckle her seatbelt.

"We have two hours until we land," she said. "And I… need something to keep me focused." She got up and entered into the aisle, glancing up and down it and holding up her hands. She then leaned on the armrest. "If you decide to join me? Knock four times. Not three, not five."

"You can't be serious," Greg said, eying her up and down.

She shrugged. "Maybe see you in three minutes?" she said, before heading towards the lavatory.

Greg watched her go, his mouth hanging open. He looked around at the other passengers on the plane. They all seemed oblivious, perfectly content as they watched the on flight movie, tended to their children, or did the crossword in the newspaper. Greg licked his lip, noticing how dry his mouth was as he drummed his fingers on the armrest, trying to decide what to do. Had she been kidding? Greg found it difficult to follow some of her jokes. That's it. This must be some sort of practical joke. Greg tried to decide if he wanted to fall for it or not. He thought about it for four minutes before unbuckling his seatbelt and following Riley's path up the aisle.

He was just about to knock on the door when he hesitated, Nick flashing in front of his mind. He closed his eyes. _No_, he thought. _I can't do this _now. _It's not fair._ He was about to turn around and go back to his seat when the occupied sign switched to vacant and the door was pulled open. He found himself standing face to face with Riley, who was looking at him with her mouth partially open. Before he could say anything, she seized his arm and pulled him inside, pulling the door closed behind him before pushing him up against it, her lips crashing against his. Her hands were frantic, and he found that, for a man with so much hesitation, so were his. His hands moved beneath her jacket, up her shoulders, and pushed it off down her arms where it fell to the floor. As her leg crept up his thigh he wrapped his hand under her knee and lifted her up over the sink, her head knocking against the mirror as he kissed down her neck.

"Ow…" she said laughing as his lips reached her shoulder blade. But he didn't stop, and she made no signs that she wanted him to, her hands moving into his hair, her eyes falling closed.

They clung to each other for the sheer sake of distraction, for clearing their minds of clutter. It was contact, for contact's sake, and in that moment, there was nothing outside of that lavatory. There were no unpredictable partners, no lost friends, no suffocating jobs, no Las Vegas, no St Louis, no universe beyond themselves. They connected, if just for a moment, to forget, and when they succeeded, if only for that moment, they fell back into themselves, and when it was over, the guilt rose in each of them.

As Greg readjusted and zipped his jeans and Riley picked her jacket up off the floor, they looked at each other. In such a tight space, meant only for one person at a time, he could still feel her breath on his skin. Without a word, he slid the door open and slipped out, making his way back to his seat. He waited for her to join him, but Riley didn't come back for several minutes. Finally, he saw her making her way towards him down the aisle. She sat down and stared at the headrest in front of her. Her eyes darted over to look at him.

"So…" she began with a heavy sigh. "Feel better?"

He looked away from her, not because he didn't, but because he did. He was grateful for that brief reprieve, that small vacation from the agonizing stress that had become his life, but in a way, that only made it all so much worse.

"Yeah," he heard her say. "Me neither."

* * *

Sara sat at the break room table with her hand over her mouth, gripping her mug of coffee. She was looking at the lists of names in front of her from everyone in Lincoln Meyer and James Sherman's lives, including what businesses they frequented, and anything that might be within walking distance of the dump site. But without any actual _crime_ scene, it was difficult to determine who might have been involved. Their best bet was a set of prints that didn't match anyone in the system.

She heard the door open and watched as Catherine slid inside. She stopped when she saw Sara. "Hey," she said weakly.

Sara took a deep breath, then let it out. "Hey," she returned.

Catherine moved over to the coffee pot and smelled it before pouring it. "We back to this old swill?"

"Greg took his coffee home when we kept using it without asking," Sara replied. "He might be convinced to bring it back. Maybe after we find Nick, we can ask."

Slowly, Catherine nodded. "You're working on finding a new angle too, I see. Warrick is back at Finley Park, walking the dump site, trying to… I don't know."

"I hate serial killers," Sara groaned. "I mean… at least, with other murders, there are clear motives, clear _suspects_, and one piece of evidence leads to another and there's a string that you can follow. But this… By all accounts, there's no connection between these victims. Dean Rogan lived and died in St. Louis, James Sherman lived and died here, and Lincoln Meyer lived in St Louis and died _here_. If _that's_ some sort of connection, it just seems so…" She slammed the table and looked up at Catherine with exhausted eyes. "And do you _know_ how many people fly between here and St. Louis every _day_? It's ridiculous."

"Vegas is one of those places full of transplants," Catherine said, sliding into the chair across from Sara. "Rare to find a native. Wouldn't surprise me if several Missourians up and moved here."

"Do you think…" Sara began. "Maybe… between Rogan and Sherman's deaths, our killer might have moved to Vegas? And… maybe Lincoln Meyer _did_ know her…" Sara flipped through the files. "And he was _visiting_. Where was his ex-wife when he died?"

"Meyer's ex-wife has lived in Vegas for five years, since their divorce," Catherine said. "And on top of that, she was at her kid's ballet recital when he died. One she says he should have attended, too."

Sara leaned back in her chair. "Well, it's still a valid theory, isn't it?"

Catherine smiled. "I'll check with the moving companies for any suspicious moves from St. Louis to Vegas in the past month. Also, I'll look for residency applications." She headed to the door, then stopped in the doorway, turning her head over her shoulder. "Sara… We found him once."

Sara forced a smile and nodded. "I know, Catherine. I know."


	9. From Stockholm, With Love

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks to burrollie for being so loyal with your reviews! I really appreciate hearing from you guys about what you like and don't, it helps me out a lot. I think I might have lost some readers at chapter five. Ah, well, that's life. Anyways, chapter nine for y'all. LaughableBlackStorm did NOT beta this - I went over it with a fine toothed comb, though, so any mistakes are my own.

Chapter Nine: From Stockholm, With Love

Working backwards, it had all ended a year before Dean Rogan had ended up dead. He met Alexa King at an auto show in Las Vegas. He had been there cruising with his friends, looking for slots to play and dice to roll and fast cars that he could never afford with the winnings he wasn't getting. She was there out of professional curiosity. And somewhere between that day, and his betrayal, it all unraveled, her sanity came tumbling down like her hair, which swung back and forth as she smashed his head against the headboard of a hotel's four poster bed.

And before all of that, Alexa was coping. Before all of that, Alexa was high. And before all of _that_, Alexa was screaming, kicking, begging for them to bring her father back to her. And before that, there was her mother. Her mother, Joanna, who spent three years in a court-ordered rehab facility, or at any rate, three years away from them. Alexa was sixteen and getting ready for school when she heard the knock at the door. She answered it without thinking, because they lived in a safe, suburban neighborhood, and nobody dangerous ever came calling.

"Hey, baby," Joanna said, in a small voice. Her smile cracked her sun-damaged skin.

Alexa didn't know what to do. She considered closing the door on her, but before she could, Joanna stepped inside, taking Alexa's hand.

"I've come to take you away from all this," Joanna said. "It will be better, where we are."

"What?" Alexa breathed. "No… What about Daddy?"

"Sh, baby, it's OK," her mother assured her. "I'm better now. And I have some friends in the car, and they're going to make sure your father never hurts you again."

"Daddy didn't _hurt_ me," Alexa hissed. "_You_ did."

This visibly stung. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and her mouth hung open. But she swallowed, snapped it shut, and nodded vigorously. "Yes, sweetheart, yes, I know I did. And I am so sorry for…" She reached out tentatively to touch the air between them, looking at Alexa's face.

Alexa knew what she was staring at. "No. Get out of my house."

"Alexa—"

"I said _get out!_" She pushed her mother away from her towards the door.

"What's going on here?" Both of them turned to look at the top of the stairs, where Louis King stood straightening his tie.

Joanna took a deep breath and held her head high as she stepped forward. "Hello, Louis."

There were footsteps, and Alexa turned to look at the open front door, where a man and a woman stood in suits. She had long, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was darker skinned, and had darker hair, and wore sunglasses. The man's hand hovered over his gun in his holster while the woman flashed a badge. "Reno PD," she said. "Sir, we have a court order to remove this girl from this environment immediately until further investigation."

Louis looked from the officers to Joanna and Alexa. "Remove her from what? That's my _daughter_ you're taking away from me," he boomed as he marched down the stairs.

"I told you to let me take care of this," Joanna said to the police.

"We tried," said the woman. "We heard a commotion, so we came in."

"You haven't heard any commotion yet," Louis growled, grabbing Joanna harshly by the arm. The male officer drew his gun.

"Sir, let her go," he ordered, as Louis twisted Joanna's arm behind her back.

"Why?" Louis demanded. "So you can shoot me?"

"Daddy, please!" Alexa begged, tears bulging from her eyes.

"Alexa, get out of here," Louis said, his eyes on the police. He revealed a razor blade and held it against Joanna's throat. Now the female officer drew her gun.

"Sir, drop your weapon. _Drop it now._"

"Why are you here?" Louis demanded. "Why are you taking my little girl away?"

"We have substantiated reports of abuse," the female officer said.

"Substantiated by _what_?" Louis spat. "The ramblings of an alcoholic?"

"I've been sober for three years now!" Joanna cried out. "I'm making _amends_."

"Shut up!" Louis growled. "_What_ proof?"

"Photos," said the male officer. "I'd show them to you, but my hands are full. Detective?"

"Nope, got my hands full, too," said the woman, choking up her grip on the gun.

"Photographs?" Louis breathed.

"I took them," Joanna said through gritted teeth. "Years ago. I should have shown them then, but I was too drunk and stupid—"

"You are _still_ drunk and stupid," Louis roared.

Alexa's ribcage was rattling. "Daddy?" Her voice was tiny, like a mouse.

"Go over with the nice police, sweetheart," Joanna breathed.

"Lexa, run," Louis ordered. "Out the backdoor, run _now_."

She stepped in that direction, when the woman officer spoke. "Alexa, you run out that door, and I will follow you. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to make sure that you're safe."

"I… I am safe…" Alexa breathed. Why did she feel like a criminal? She'd done nothing wrong, and yet…

"Let my daughter go," Louis said slowly. "Or I slice Joanna's throat and she bleeds out right here."

Alexa felt herself drawn to her father, but despite everything that her mother had done to them, she couldn't let him kill her. She looked to the detectives, imploringly. "Please… Don't let him do this."

"Lexa, _go_."

"Daddy!"

There was a scream, and then a shot, and Alexa was on her knees. She watched, wide-eyed, as her mother stumbled forward and her father clutched at his arm. A dark liquid seemed to swell under the sleeve of his blazer. He cradled his injured arm before looking up incredulously at the female officer. His face, drenched in sweat, contorted and Alexa could see every ounce of humanity evaporate from those eyes. He curled his lips, bared his teeth, and flared his nostrils before letting out a brutish roar and launching himself at the female officer, raising the razor in his good arm.

"_Da-ha-ha-ddy!_" Alexa shrilly screamed right as she heard the second shot and watched him fall to the floor. There was a gaping hole in his furrowed gargoyle's brow from which she could still see wisps of smoke as they rose up out of his corpse. She saw the particles of vaporized blood as they clung to the air, hanging there for a moment, before coating her nostrils, her tongue, her throat and she nearly choked on it. She couldn't pull her eyes away.

"Daddy?" she breathed, inching towards him on her hands and knees. "Daddy?"

"Roger, call in backup, and a bus," Alexa heard the female cop say. "Also, tell Samson he's gonna need to call IA about an officer involved shooting. File an incident report." Alexa whipped her head to look at the detective.

"You… you shot him."

Without missing a beat, the brunette nodded. "I did. The first time. In the arm."

But Alexa shook her head. "You _killed_… you killed him."

The detective pursed her lips. "My partner did, yes."

Alexa blinked her wide green eyes, before slowly turning to her mother, whom she saw was cowering at the foot of the stairs, clutching at her throat. Her hands had blood on them. The female detective moved over to Joanna and whispered a few words to her. Joanna slowly pulled her hands away for a moment, but the detective had her immediately put the pressure back on her neck.

Alexa didn't understand. She saw the male officer walk back into the house, hanging up a phone. "Who's going to take care of me?" she breathed.

The male detective looked a little surprised. "Well… Your mother has custody of you until you're eighteen, so I think that—"

"You?" Alexa interrupted. "Will you take care of me?"

His features softened. He approached her and kneeled down beside her. "Alexa… I can't do that."

But she smiled and took his hand. "You look nice. I bet you'd love me, wouldn't you?"

His eyes grew sad. "Your mother's nice, too, Alexa. She's done a lot to help you."

"I hate her," Alexa growled. "Can't be _near_ her. But I like you. Will you love me?"

He squeezed her shoulder, then slowly rose to his feet. He tried to pull his hand away, but she wouldn't let him.

"Please," she begged. "Don't leave me. Don't leave me with _her_."

He paused and frowned at her. "It's going to be all right now, Alexa."

"No…" Alexa said, shaking her head slowly, looking directly into his eyes. "No, Daddy, please, don't leave me…"

He managed to tug his hand away from her, then approached the brunette detective. Alexa strained her ears.

"Call in psych," she heard him say. "This girl is badly damaged."

* * *

They tried to place Alexa in her mother's care, but she screamed like a toddler whenever they tried. She scratched at the eyes of CPS and armed officers who tried escorting her to the residence. When finally in the house, she threw lamps and dishes and anything she could get her hands on, until CPS finally decided to put her in foster care until she calmed down. But that didn't work out either, and eventually she was labeled too unstable to live with foster parents, which is how Joanna ended up signing the papers to commit her daughter to the Willow Springs Treatment Center for Children and Adolescents.

Willow Springs was different than the various foster homes, and Alexa responded to it cautiously. All she knew was that it was away from her mother. She fell into a routine. They provided some academic courses that she took during the morning, with counseling in the afternoon, and recreation and socialization in the evening. When counseling alone could not bridge the schism that had grown in Alexa's mind between the dependent child and the angry adult, the doctors at Willow Springs incorporated medication into her treatment, and Alexa responded well. So well, in fact, that after two years, she was old enough, and finally felt strong enough to venture outside of those walls. She would spend her time on the campus of the University of Nevada, even though she didn't attend classes there. Willow Springs had taught her social skills, how to interact and bond with her peers, and she used them to make several friends, friends who then introduced her to marijuana, and Alexa spent the rest of her teenage years smoking up in her friends' basements.

One of these friends had a Sixty-Two Chevy Impala and, with nothing else to hold her attention, Alexa fell madly in love with it. He taught her everything about the car, from headlight to tailpipe. After that, she found old cars at the impound lot and delighted in taking them apart and putting them back together again. She found it blissfully soothing to spend her days beneath all that metal, where no one would bother her. It was the first place she felt truly safe. She soon was known as the go-to girl around campus for a cheap, well-done tune up. But when she turned twenty-two, and her friends had all graduated, Alexa bought her 1957 Chevy Pickup and hit the road, unsure of where she would end up.

She didn't go far. Didn't even cross state lines. She headed southwest on Route 95 until she finally landed in the City of Lights. The neon took her breath away, and she thought to herself, _This is somewhere I can finally fit in_. So she found an old garage for sale, snapped it up and set up shop. And she made a decent living there for six years. Six years of mediocrity and joy, just Alexa and her cars, and she didn't need anything else. And then came the day that she met Dean, and suddenly, twelve years were not enough to bury her past.

They bonded discussing the pros and cons of the illegality of drag racing. She took him home that night and for the first time since her father, slipped into bed with a man. They started slow, then the stakes increased, until she was devouring him, and he was completely enthralled with her. They spent the week together, holding hands as they walked down the strip, and then, he went home. He told her he needed to stay in St. Louis for work, and they continued their relationship over the internet, where Alexa divulged secrets she had never before told another soul. She found herself falling deeper and deeper into this relationship, until she decided to surprise him in St. Louis.

She put money aside for a month before she'd saved up enough to go. It was a struggle to keep her plans from Dean, as every time she logged on she wanted to squeal about how excited she was to see him again. The minute she touched down, she dialed Dean's number, ready to yell, _Surprise!_

But it wasn't Dean's voice that answered. "Hello?"

Alexa hesitated. Had she accidentally dialed the wrong number? "Hi… Sorry, I think I have the wrong number, um… I'm looking for Dean?"

"Ah," said the woman on the phone. "Yuh huh, yeah, sure, OK, uh… Hang on, though, he's kinda in the shower. Can he call ya back?"

"Oh…" Alexa said. "Yes, that'd be great."

"So who's asking for him?"

"I'm sorry…" Alexa broke in. "Might I ask who this is?"

"You might," the woman replied casually.

Alexa waited for her to answer, then grew frustrated. "So who are you?"

"Gina," the woman replied. And then, her tone shifted. "Let me guess. Dino didn't tell you he lived with me, did he?"

"N-no…" Alexa said slowly. "So… you guys are roommates?"

"With benefits."

"Beg pardon?"

"I'm his girlfriend," Gina said.

Alexa hung up immediately as if the phone had burned her. She latched her fingers together and held them over her stomach. She watched as the taxis and other cars came and went, picking up new arrivals and whisking them away to fancy hotels, or home to their families. Family… Family was a word that meant something entirely different to Alexa than it did to most people. She felt herself slowly detach from the scene as if it was dissolving around her. The Doppler whoosh of the cars as they went passed was muted and she could clearly hear her slow breathing, paying close attention to her heartbeat.

_I should go home…_

And then, another thought occurred to her. **_Why?_**

Alexa shook her head and brought her hands up to rub her arms. _He lied to me. He has a girlfriend. All this time… they live together. I should never have come._

**_Coming here is the best idea you've ever had._**

Alexa took a deep breath. She spun on her heal to go back into the airport.

**_What the hell do you think you're doing?_**

She stopped. She looked over her shoulder at the taxis.

_It's not him._

**_They're the same type of person. It might as well be him._**

_But it's not him. He's dead._

**_And Dean isn't._**

Alexa blinked. She looked at the people who walked right by her, as if she didn't exist. They were lugging bags on wheels or being weighed down by large backpacks.

**_Don't you think you should fix that?_**

She couldn't believe what she was thinking. _That's horrible! I… I could never…_

**_You had the chance to be happy again. You were so close. He took that from you._**

_Joanna killed Daddy. She took him from me. I couldn't… It's not Dean's fault, he's—_

**_It's entirely his fault. He's out there. Your father is out there. Find him, Alexa. Find him again, and show him how much you love him._**

And then, something inside of her slipped, like a glass from her hand, and she could feel it hit the concrete and shatter into a million pieces.

**_Find him, Alexa. Find him again, and show him how much you love him…_**

* * *

Nick's eyes fluttered open and he knew that something was wrong. Or rather, he knew that something was different. There was very little about his situation that _wasn't_ wrong. But he could feel it, somewhere in the chills that stirred goose bumps across his bare arms. There was a dull, throbbing ache resonating from his chest and he knew that he was feeling the burn again. But that wasn't what was different. Moreover, that wasn't what was wrong.

Alexa wasn't there.

She wasn't there, and this made Nick uncomfortable. He imagined that she had stepped out, to put on the pretense that she lived a normal life. Which begged the question, _What time is it?_ In the windowless room, Nick couldn't even tell if it was night or day. He shifted on the bed, rolling his numb shoulders, trying to start the blood flow again. He winced as he aggravated the wound on his chest, but the movement of his facial muscles tore a stitch in his healing scar. He let out a frustrated groan. He couldn't win. There was no scenario in which he could escape this unscathed, if he hoped to escape at all.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and Alexa stood there for a moment, watching him with a blank expression. In her hands, she held a lug wrench. She twirled it in her fingers, and Nick saw the perpendicular bar spin around in circles. Nick tried to crane his head to get a better look at her, so that he could gauge her mood. If she were delusional, her face would be filled with fantasy and lust. If she were rational, her face would generally be flooded with guilt and uncertainty. But none of these telltale signs graced her features, and Nick found that she was very difficult to read. So he decided to say nothing and wait for her to make the first move.

And then, she whispered, with the voice of a ghost, "What have you done to me?"

It was an ambiguous question, and Nick still could not tell if she thought he was her father or not. "Alexa…"

"You've made me a monster…" she continued. She stopped twirling the lug wrench and instead began tapping the cross against her thigh. "Have I become you?"

Nick slowly shook his head. "You're dreamin' again, girl," Nick said, his voice shaking. "I'm not your father."

"No," she said, as if it were obvious. "You aren't him, are you? But you might as well be."

Nick's stomach heaved. "What?"

The tapping intensified and tears grew in her dead red eyes. "I _killed_ for you… I've done _everything_, for you, _because_ of _you_, and you just… you…" She was almost beating her own leg with the lug wrench now. "So help me, God, I will end this haunting."

She launched herself at him with the wrench and, horrified, Nick called out, "_Lexa_!" He'd only left off the 'A' in a hurry to get out the rest of her name, but it stopped her better than a bullet. Alexa was frozen, with the wrench held over her head, and the tears spilled out down her cheeks as a panicked, petrified smile twitched its way onto her lips. "Da… Daddy?" she half begged.

At this point, Nick would pretend to be anyone other than a dead man. "Y-y-yes, sweet… sweetheart," he choked.

Her breathing quickened and the lug wrench tumbled to the floor with the clatter of metal against wood. She brought her hands to her mouth and took deep breaths. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry…" The tears spilled out over her face. "I could never hurt you… I'm so sorry, I thought, I thought, I thought maybe you weren't him and you… but you were, and… Oh, God, Daddy…"

She threw herself at him again, but this time it wasn't about violence, but solace, as she slung her arms around his torso and buried her face his neck. He could feel her hot tears splash against his skin as she slobbered all over him. Nick closed his eyes, relieved that this was all she was doing. He let her cry, releasing all her demons into the air. He felt her ball her hands into fists and then open them again, raking them up his sides and then down again. For a moment, Nick almost wished that he could embrace her.

"I can't stand to see you cry, sweetheart…" he breathed.

"Daddy, I'm so lost…" he heard her sob against his skin. "Tell me… what to do…"

Nick closed his eyes, and for what he felt was the millionth time that evening, whispered, "Let me go, Alexa." He knew it was futile. He knew that even though she spoke as if he held the power, deep down she knew better than to release her victim.

"Don't leave me…" she pleaded, squeezing him tighter. Nick gritted his teeth as he felt his seared skin fold together.

"Never," he promised.

"Never _ever_," Alexa wailed. She pulled her face away from his neck and sniffed. Her face was red and swollen, as if someone had hit her. He saw her try and stop crying, and it worked a little. She fought to regain control of her breathing. She set her jaw, closed her eyes, and took deep breaths. When she opened them again, it was to stare down at him, with such devotion in her eyes. She brought her hand up to cup his cheek and leaned forward, gently kissing the other one. Her hands moved down to his shoulders and rubbed them, almost painfully hard.

And then, she said, "All right."

Nick blinked. He wasn't sure what she meant. But then, his eyes doubled in size as he saw her reach for the scissors on the bedside table again. There was an anxious pounding in his chest when she reached across his chest towards his left arm. There was a moment, where she struggled to cut through the thick rope, but she eventually managed and Nick's arm fell limply to the bed. The minute it hit the mattress, he could feel that prickling sensation erupt across his muscles. He pulled his arm against his chest, if only because he couldn't do it before and was immeasurably more comfortable just by that action. And then, he felt the other one drop. He wrapped both arms around himself and let out a low groan of satisfaction. He began rubbing his chilled upper arms, trying to bring the feeling back to them. His hands traveled down his biceps, to his forceps, and finally, to his wrists, which were purple and brown. One of them looked like it had been dislocated, but he couldn't even feel it. Bracing himself, he held his breath and snapped it back into place before letting out a low sigh. He continued to wrap his fingers around his wrists, trying to sooth them.

Alexa sat back on her knees and looked down at him, the tear streaks on her face standing out. "I'm so sorry…"

Nick realized that she'd also cut away the ropes tying his feet. He stopped focusing on his arms and looked up at her, her hair shining golden in the incandescent light from the ceiling lamp. He reached up and tucked it behind the ear. She lowered her chin to her chest. He adjusted his position, moving up on the bed so he could rest his back against the headboard. He leaned his head back, again emitting a low moan.

"Oh God…" he breathed. He never thought it would feel so good to sit up. Spending so long in the same position was so much more exhausting than running five miles. He pulled his knees up to his chest, relishing the opportunity to allow them to bend. For a moment, he didn't want to move at all. And then, he felt Alexa shift on the bed beside him. Her hand was on his shoulder, making him look at her. And then, she kissed him. And as before, he let her, numbly. His eyes closed, he felt her hand move back into his hair, her fingers clutching his scalp. She pulled away from his face and watched him with those bright forest eyes.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you." His response was automatic, but emotionless and robotic. She looked off to the side, her gaze vacant. And Nick made a decision.

He reached out and touched her chin with his fingers, tilting it up and making her look at him again. He brought his hand up to her white cheek and she gladly leaned her head into it. His hand moved back and he combed his fingers up into her hair, and she closed her eyes, her mouth partly open as she waited. He leaned in very close, until he could feel her breath cross his lips. But he moved past them, and delicately touched them to her forehead. When he pulled back again, her eyes were open.

"I love you," he repeated, not because he meant it, but because he felt that she needed to hear it, with sincerity, without needing to ask for it. She looked down again at the bedspread and he stretched out his arms and legs, moving his head from one shoulder to the other. He stretched too hard, however, because he'd forgotten about his burns and he let out a small cry of pain. Alexa didn't even look up. She sat there, on the edge of the bed, looking defeated. Nick moved his hand across his bandaged chest, over his heart, to where the tip of the iron burn pointed, then down over the white cotton. All things considered, she didn't do a bad job taking care of the injuries she inflicted.

Slowly, he kicked his legs over the edge of the bed, watching Alexa for movement all the while, but she was a perfect porcelain statue. He carefully shifted his weight onto his feet and staggered slightly, for a moment forgetting how to use them. His legs were still waking up, and he was beginning to feel sore around his angles, where the ropes had been, although it wasn't as noticeable as the dull ache in his wrists. But standing had done something else, and his burn began to crackle again and he felt like the damaged skin was splintering and flaking off his body. He clutched at his chest, then saw the pain pills and the water. He only took one, enough to keep his head on straight but dull the sting of his multiple injuries.

Again, he looked back at Alexa, and again, she hadn't moved. Still, in her silent pose, she looked graceful. Her legs were hanging off the side of the bed, her knees together, her bare toes touching the floor. She was turned at the hip, her torso facing the headboard, but her head bent, almost in penance, as her eyes remained on the purple comforter. One hand kept her balance on the bed, and the other lay forgotten on her lap. She reminded Nick of a marble angel in a graveyard. A part of him was averse to just leaving her there like that. But then, his survival instincts were screaming at him to take his chance and run. She might not always be so docile. He had seen her when she really lost it.

Or was _this_ what it looked like when Alexa King _really_ lost it? Was she so far gone that everything, the rage, the desperation, the lust, the savage need to love and be loved, all drained from her now? Had some dam in her cracked from the pressure of all these conflicting needs and obsessions? Perhaps she had gone catatonic. If that were the case, then she'd surely be in the same position when Nick came back, with doctors, to take care of her. He looked at the open door and moved purposely towards it.

"Don't leave me…"

And just like that, Nick was drawn to her again. He couldn't leave her there like that. He turned in the doorway and saw that the only part of her that had moved had been her lips. With a strange, reluctant sigh, he stepped back into the room and closed the door, leaning against it.

"Like I told you before," he breathed. "I could never leave you."

* * *

Catherine slammed down a file in front of Sara as she finished her salad. "Twenty-six big moves from St. Louis to Las Vegas in the past month," she explained. "From four different moving companies. Nine of them are families, seven retirees, four couples and six singles."

Sara blinked. "What about residency applications?"

"Whole other barrel of fish," Catherine said. "We'll worry about it if these six don't pan out."

Sara opened the file and perused the names Catherine had highlighted. "Only twenty-six, huh?"

"That's for the ones who did it through the moving companies," Catherine explained. "Others may have come over on their own, or had family help, but…" She gave a half-hearted shrug. "It's a start, right? And it was _your_ idea."

Sara nodded, vigorously. "I know, I know." She rose to her feet, her salad forgotten as she took the file. "OK, so, I'll start with the first name, you start with the last name, we can make some calls."

"Sounds good," Catherine agreed, as she followed Sara out of the break room and down the hall. They rounded the corner.

"I was also thinking," Sara continued. "Greg and Detective Adams should have touched down about half an hour ago. Do you think they found anything we can use?"

Catherine shrugged. "I feel, if they did, they would have called us from Missouri."

"So you're not hopeful?"

Catherine managed a sad smile. "I'm always hopeful, Sara."

"Excuse me?"

The two women stopped as they passed the lobby. They both turned to see a woman in late middle age standing in the middle of it, clutching a purse with both hands. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and she wore an off-white, wrinkled suit.

Sara noticed that Judy wasn't at the front desk, so the woman would have had no one to talk to. "Are you lost, ma'am?" she asked, approaching the woman.

"I-I don't think so," the woman replied, sounding slightly anxious. "I'm looking for, um, a detective?"

"Is this concerning a case?" Catherine guessed.

The woman nodded, quickly. "Yes, um… I live in Reno, and I saw the news about those two men that were murdered here. The ones with the scars on their faces?"

Sara and Catherine exchanged looks. "Did you know one of those men, ma'am?" Sara asked, with bated breath.

"He's only haunted me for the past twelve years," the woman whispered, with a sad smile. "Both of them… they're the spitting image of my husband."

Catherine spun on her heel and rolled her eyes. She muttered to Sara, "We don't have time for this."

Sara was equally disappointed, but she tried not to let it show. "Ma'am, neither of those men are your husband, they're—"

"Don't be silly, I know they aren't my husband," the woman interrupted.

Catherine turned around and watched the woman curiously. "Then what are you saying?"

The woman seemed skittish. She licked her lips and extended her hand. "My name is Joanna King. And I think I can tell you who killed those men."


	10. House of Spirits

**_Author's Note:_** I'm thoroughly impressed not only with the amount of feedback I've received for this story as of last chapter, but the quality. I guess a little wallowing goes a long way. I really appreciate the time and effort you put into your reviews (really, all of you) and not just "OMG plz rite moar." At any rate, you won't hear any more complaining from me. I was so impressed with the feedback, I would have posted this sooner, but blame the beta (I'm sure LaughableBlackStorm doesn't mind me using her as a scapegoat). I suppose as a bonus for you guys, the next few chapters are long ones.

Chapter Ten: House of Spirits

Greg and Riley sat in uncomfortable silence, each on opposite ends of the backseat of the cab, each staring out their respective window. Though he wanted to do more to help find Nick, Greg was frustrated that he would have to return to the lab empty-handed. He felt as if he'd just wasted twelve hours, not to mention money out of the lab's budget on a bogus trip to St. Louis. It was why he hadn't called them yet to let them know that they were back in town. He watched as the cab drove down the familiar streets from the airport, counting the cars that drove by for lack of anything better to do. Once in a while, he would try to make words out of the license plates he'd see.

They came to a stoplight, and Greg's heart lurched as they drew level with a black Tahoe. _That's Nick's car_… he thought to himself, sadly, before he realized, _Wait… That's _Nick's_ car!_

He put both hands and his nose to the window, a slow grin playing across his features. Then he rolled down the window as far as it would go and leaned out of it.

"What are you doing?"

"SH!" Greg hissed at Riley. It couldn't be seen unless one knew what to look for, but if Greg squinted, he could just make out the outline of a woman and a dollar bill on the passenger's side door, just under the fresh paint job. He threw open the car door.

"Hey, buddy, this is a stop light, not a parking space!" he heard the cabbie scream after him. Following his lead, Riley hopped out too and watched as Greg rapped on the window of the driver's side. The driver was young, couldn't have been older than eighteen, and he gawked at Greg, who would not cease his knocking.

"Open up!"

Finally, the boy rolled his window down. "Dude, I don't have any change," he said. "Go wash someone else's car."

"Do I look like I need to eat more to you?" Greg returned.

At that point, Riley joined him. "What's going on, Greg?"

"This is Nick's car," he told her. "I'm one hundred percent certain of that."

"Dude, what?" the teenager gaped.

Riley showed him her badge. "Would you please step out of the car, sir?"

At that point, people were honking at them. Though the light was green, no one could pass, because the cabbie refused to move in his lane as well. "Hey, ma'am!" the cabbie yelled. "This gonna take all day?"

"Out of the car, sir," Riley repeated to the teen.

"Dude, I don't know any Nick," the teenager insisted. "This is my Dad's car."

"Like hell it is!" Greg cried. He pointed at the side. "Look, Riley, there – see that silhouette? That used to be a blonde in a bikini, until Nick had his paintjob redone – poorly! And thank God, too, or else I wouldn't have noticed!"

Riley tilted her head to try to make it out, then returned to the driver. "He's got you there, kid."

"C'mon, you two, what's this all about?" the cab driver called again.

"Yo, _move_!" a driver stranded behind the Tahoe yelled.

The teenager was getting out of his car, looking anxious. Riley looked at Greg. "Hang on a sec," she said, then turned to the cabbie, waving her badge in the air.

"It's all right, everyone, I'll have you going where you need to go in no time!" she called. She opened up her wallet when she reached the cab driver. "OK, so how much do I owe you?"

With Riley distracted, the teenager chose that moment to make a break for it on foot. He dashed to the left and tried to run around the front of the car.

"Oh no you don't!" Greg roared, seizing the teen by his arm and pushed him up against the car, pulling the arm hard behind his back.

"Ow! Police brutality!" the boy yelled.

"I'm not a cop, I can be as brutal as I want," Greg hissed in his ear. "Now where the hell did you get this car?"

"OK, OK, OK!" the teenager whined. "I took one of my Dad's cars out last night and it broke down, OK, so I went to his mechanic and she said she could give this to me as a loaner while she fixed it, you know, so he wouldn't know it was missing! Said she'd keep it quiet for me, _promised_ even!"

"Wait!" he heard Riley yell, and then she was jogging over. The cab sped off, and cars began to pass the stranded Tahoe. She pushed Greg aside and forced the boy to spin around and face her. "Are you Mike Larson?"

The boy nodded, then shook his head. "I mean, that's my Dad, yeah."

"The used car salesman?"

"Uh huh. You know him?"

Riley gave Greg a fearfully guilty look. "I know his mechanic."

* * *

Sara stared at the woman who sat across from her at the conference table. She seemed to be in her mid-fifties, and she had not aged gracefully. Layers of foundation were caked over the worry lines in her brow, and she tried to disguise her age with eyeliner and lip gloss. Neither woman said a word. Sara continued to try and decipher Joanna, who simply stared at her lap, as if ashamed.

And then, Sara spoke. "Your daughter?"

Joanna nodded, then looked up at Sara. "You have to understand… What she does, it's not her fault."

Sara felt something burn deep inside her, like acid, and it rose up to her heart. "I really hate it when people say that," she sighed, leaning back in her chair.

"But it's true," Joanna insisted. "She doesn't know what she's—"

"She's killed three men!" Sara roared through gritted teeth. "Maybe four."

"She wouldn't have done it if—"

"If what?" Sara interjected. "If she'd never met them? If she wasn't in a bad mood? If she'd eaten all her vegetables? I'm sorry, but there is no excuse good enough to—"

"_If_ I had been a better mother," Joanna finished, insistently. "This isn't Alexa's fault, it's mine."

Sara, still fuming, found that she had nothing more to say. She began to grind her teeth, and was relieved when Catherine opened the door, and entered with Grissom and Warrick.

Warrick pushed his way to the table and slammed his hands down, glaring at Joanna. "_Where is she_?"

"I don't know," Joanna said.

"Would she be at her apartment?" Grissom inquired, his voice deceptively even.

"Maybe, I don't know…" Joanna shrugged. "Where does she live?"

Catherine showed Joanna the print outs of Alexa King's driver's and business licenses. "She also owns a garage by Finley Park." She looked at Grissom. "I'm betting there."

Warrick immediately left the room. The others watched him leave.

"Brass and armed officers are already on their way," Catherine told Grissom.

Sara pushed her chair back. "I think we should follow Warrick's lead and get over there. Now."

* * *

Greg wrapped his fingers possessively around the wheel of the Tahoe, as if claiming it for his own. "You know, this would be much easier with a siren."

"Well, I'm sorry," Riley articulated sarcastically, "but I don't carry my siren with me everywhere I go."

Greg ran a yellow light just as it turned red.

"Dude, watch it!" the teenager complained from the back seat.

"Shut up, this isn't your car," Greg threw over his shoulder.

"It's my _body_, and I'd kinda like to keep it, OK, man?"

Greg ignored a four-way stop and someone honked at him. But he didn't care; he was only a few blocks away from Finley. They pulled up outside of the autoshop, and Greg could hear sirens in the distance. It reminded him, as he hopped out of the car.

"Riley – call Brass, tell him what's happening."

"Where are you going?" Riley called as he sprinted to the shop.

"Where do you _think_?" Greg shouted back, just before he ran inside. He knew that she was shouting something else at him, but he didn't care. He had to get to Nick.

* * *

Riley watched as Greg vanished into the building, throwing curses at his back.

"Damn you, Greg Sanders!" she hissed. "We need to wait for backup!"

The teenager leaned his head out the window. "So, like, can I have my car back now?"

"It's not your car!" Riley snapped.

He pointed at the garage. "Nah, but my car's in there."

"Just… shut up," Riley said, pulling out her phone. "And stay in the car." But just as she hit Brass's number, she saw three police cars pull up outside of the garage.

"Welcome back to Vegas, Detective," was the greeting she received on her phone.

Riley looked at the cop cars around her. "I take it you sent a few black and whites to Finley?"

"Did one better," Brass said, and Riley watched as the passenger door to a squad car opened. She saw Jim Brass step outside, a phone to his ear. "I came with them."

Riley hung up her phone and jogged over to Brass, who was looking at her vehicle. He pointed at it, with a curious frown. "Is that—"

"Greg ran inside," Riley said.

Brass cursed, turning his head to the entrance before looking back at Riley. "And you _let_ him?"

"I don't _let_ Greg do anything, he just…" she made a frantic gesture at the door, "_does_!"

"Faber, Garcia, go keep Sanders out of trouble," Brass ordered.

Riley watched as two officers went into the building. She looked at Brass. "How did you know to come here?"

"How did _you_?" Brass returned.

"Uh…" Riley said, as she watched two more officers enter the building. "Let's discuss this later, kay?"

"Agreed," said Brass, and they entered the building themselves.

* * *

When Greg darted into the building, his first stop after the main office was the garage next door. He called out Nick's name, but all it did was echo off of the concrete walls. He saw Mike Larson's Tahoe sitting in the middle of it. Greg's eyes fell on a metal door at the back of the garage and ran to it. It was locked. He banged on it, again screaming Nick's name. He listened for any response at all.

"Wasting _time_, Sanders…" he muttered to himself, before jogging out of the garage. He looked for another path and saw the Employees Only door. Without a second thought, he opened it so fast he nearly ripped it off its hinges. He encountered a narrow staircase with room for only one person to ascend at a time and walls on either side. With nowhere to go but up, he followed it.

When he was eleven, Greg had somehow got it into his head that he wanted to be an architect. After months of begging, he finally managed to convince his mother to plan a family road trip to San Jose to visit the Winchester Mansion. The whole six hours, Greg bounced up and down in the back seat, spouting facts about Sarah Winchester to his parents and grandparents. The more Greg told her about the lore and ghost stories surrounding the house, the more his grandmother grew apprehensive. She warned Greg about setting foot on such a spiritually dangerous property, but Greg paid her no mind. When they finally arrived, Greg bounded out of the car with glee. During the tour, a staircase caught his eye.

Sarah Winchester had been a terrified, highly superstitious woman, who spent her vast fortune building and rebuilding her massive estate, upon the advice of a psychic who told her she needed to confuse the spirits. While perusing the house, Greg marveled at the peculiar architectural design, making note of the windows that looked upside down, the floor panels on the ceiling, and the doors that opened to walls. But Greg was most fascinated by the staircases. Staircases that seemed to climb up to the ceiling and abruptly end, staircases that descended before changing their minds and ascending again, and the switchback staircase that had seven flights, forty steps, but only rose nine feet high. It was by making the mistake of climbing this last staircase before the tour guide that got the young Greg Sanders lost in the mystery house. The tour was moving on below, but Greg was curious. He tried finding a new way down, but only ended up down a hallway that returned onto itself. He fell into a secret, musty passage in the wall and then panicked when he couldn't find his way back out again, crying out for his parents.

He'd only been lost about twenty minutes before the tour found him, but something had changed in him. He rode home with his family in absolute silence, and never discussed dreams of being an architect ever again.

As Greg climbed the dark staircase in the back room of the garage, he began to feel his lungs expanding in his chest, then slowly deflating. The air was dusty and heavy and he found it difficult to access the oxygen. He extended both his hands outward so they were touching both walls as he went up the staircase, half wondering if this woman was as crazy as Sarah Winchester, and if she'd built a staircase to nowhere just for the sake of confusing the spirits, or maybe any law officers that came calling. He could hear his own, open-mouthed breathing, feel the bead of sweat slide from his hairline down his temple. He took one hand away from the wall and it hovered over the place where his holster used to be.

Greg stopped and looked down at his belt, where he carried no gun. The hand that had reached for it clenched into a fist before opening again, and he stopped climbing the stairs about halfway up. He looked to the landing above, and as his eyes adjusted, he could just barely make out the outline of a door and the glint off of a metal doorknob. He looked back down the stairs. He heard sounds coming from the ground floor, and hoped that he would have backup. He continued forward, moving slightly faster, if only to get out of the constricting, haunted staircase. He heard shouting from the floor below, people calling his name and Nick's. He reached for the brass doorknob, his mouth dry, but before he could grip it, the door flew inward.

Greg fell backwards in shock. His foot took a step back to help maintain his balance, but he wasn't on level ground, and one arm banged against the wall, fingers grasping at anything to keep from tumbling down the stairs. Something else reached out and grabbed his other hand, pulling him forward and into a room flooded with a soft orange light.

The momentum of the pull caused Greg to stumble forward and his hands landed on a pair of broad shoulders, which he gripped tightly, first because he needed to steady himself again, and then, because he recognized whose shoulders they were.

Nick was holding Greg's elbows and staring at him with quiet brown eyes. For a moment, Greg wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't expected Nick to be conscious, let alone unbound. A part of him wasn't even sure if Nick would still be _alive_ when they found him, but there he was, standing tall, looking a little worse for wear, but more or less alive and kicking.

And then, Greg realized, he didn't _need_ to say anything at all. He threw his arms around Nick's neck and closed his eyes. Slowly, he felt Nick return the embrace, his arms rising weakly. His fingers slowly unfurled and he laid his palms on Greg's back. And then, as if Nick were waking up from a dream, he seemed to realize what exactly had just happened, and his grip on Greg's back intensified, squeezing Greg as hard as Greg was squeezing him.

His eyes closed, Greg relished the contact, inhaling deeply before letting it out again and pulling away from Nick, who didn't seem to want to let him go. It took some effort, but he finally managed and gripped his friend by his upper arms. Greg tried to catch his eye, but something about those brown orbs seemed far away. It was then that Greg took in the full extent of Nick's injuries. He was shirtless, with gauze wrapped around his chest. Greg put his fingers to the edge of the bandages, where it met Nick's skin. He then looked up at the stitched up scar that had been slashed across Nick's face, and he felt a bitter sting that began in the back of his eyes. Nick's gaze wandered away from Greg's, staring at the floor somewhere in the corner of the room. And Greg allowed his own eyes to lose focus, blurring the man that stood in front of him, and then refocusing on the other person in the room, who sat cross-legged on the four poster bed and watched them with inscrutable green eyes.

Greg moved to walk past Nick and determinedly to the bed, not sure exactly what he was going to do when he got there, only knowing what he wanted the results to be, which was to see terror in her eyes, to see regret, to see pain, to see _anything_ but the emptiness that he saw now—

His thoughts were broken by Nick's touch, as he seized Greg's arm before he could even start to begin the grueling, messy process of retribution.

"Don't," Nick said.

It was the first word either of them had said since Greg's arrival. The younger man turned to look at Nick with baffled eyes, his mouth half open. Nick didn't offer any further verbal explanation, but his expression was clear. The girl on the bed was not to be harmed. Greg didn't understand the words he was reading on his old friend's face. But before he could ask, there was a crash.

"_LVPD!_"

Nick turned and Greg looked up in time to see two officers burst into the room, guns drawn. They scanned it once, before finding the one person that didn't belong and trained their guns on her.

"Hands where we can see 'em, lady," one of them ordered.

Cautiously, and with a slight twitch, the woman's hands rose into the air. Her face looked panicked, and her eyes darted over to her victim.

"N-Nick?"

Her query looked from the officers to her, and then his hands went up, raking through his hair to the back of his head. "Jesus…" he breathed, as if he wasn't sure what to do. "Wait," he said, pointedly, holding up a hand to the officers. "Hold on, there's been a misunderstanding."

And then, Greg found his voice. "A _misunderstanding_?" he spat incredulously.

Nick acted as if he'd just remembered Greg was there. He turned to him and nodded, quickly. "Yeah. I mean…" He seemed conflicted. He glanced at the woman. "Sort of."

And then, ideas began to fall together in Greg's mind like soggy puzzle pieces, and an old, self-loathing paranoia tried to shove them together until they fit. "Was this some sort of _joke_ to you?" Greg breathed. "Some way of getting back at me for some stupid pizza errand I made you run?"

Nick blinked. "What? No – pizza – what are you talking about?"

Greg looked at the blonde on the bed. "Have you just been honeymooning all this time?"

Nick pursed his lips, his eyes piercing. He looked frustrated and disappointed all at once as he put a hand on his hip. "Greg—"

"I-I mean, I walk in here, you're _not_ tied up, you're awake, the door was clearly unlocked, because _you_ opened it—"

"Does it _look_ like this has been easy for me?" Nick cut him off, gesturing at the scar on his face.

"Hell, I don't know what you're into!" Greg exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. "Maybe?"

Nick sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. "Greg, you don't—"

"Nick?"

The desperate call stopped him in his tracks. Nick looked over to see the two officers pulling Alexa off of the bed and handcuffing her.

"No, don't hurt her!" Nick called.

"Don't _hurt_ her?" Greg echoed.

"Alexa King," came Brass's booming voice as he strode into the room. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used—"

"Brass!" Nick interjected.

The old detective stopped and looked at Nick with grateful eyes for a moment before slowly continuing. "Used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you."

"Why are you doing this?" Nick asked.

"Is anyone else hearing what I'm hearing?" Greg asked, looking at the two detectives in the doorway and gesturing wildly at Nick.

Riley appeared to be the only one who shared Greg's concern. She walked briskly to Nick and put a delicate hand on his bicep. Nick pulled away with a flinch.

"Please…" he said. "Just… I'm sorry, but don't touch me."

Slowly, her mouth partially open, Riley nodded. "Nick Stokes, do you understand what happened to you?"

"Yes," Nick said. He looked at Greg. "I do."

"Can you tell me what you understand about what happened to you?"

"I thought you were a detective," Nick said, "not a condescending therapist."

"Nick, this is really important," Riley said slowly.

Nick looked at Alexa as Brass and two officers led her out of the room. "I was abducted…"

"By?"

"By Alexa King."

"And who is Alexa King?"

Nick looked at her as if she were stupid. "You just arrested her."

"So, you understand why we've put her under arrest."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"But what, Nick?" Greg cried. "It's pretty black and white. She took you, she _hurt_ you, she gets a needle in her arm, end of story."

Nick went white. He gaped at Greg a moment, then turned desperately to Riley. "Oh, no, you've got to promise me you won't kill her. Please. She needs help."

"_You_ need help."

"Greg, you're not helping," Riley snapped.

Greg roared with exasperation. "Whatever, I can't do this." And he marched outside, slamming the door behind him. He was left in darkness in the stairway again, but there was a light from the open door on the bottom. He could hear people milling about, sirens just beyond, and loud voices. Greg stomped down the stairs, his mind reeling, unsure of how to take all of this. In the middle of the stairs, something frozen and silky moved through him and he stopped. His mind had flashes of endless hallways, indoor windows, and hollow walls and he had to sit down, his head was spinning so much.

When he had returned from the Winchester House, Greg was convinced that a ghost had followed him home. He asked his Nana for her advice, and she said that she did sense a presence around him. She explained that this one was latched on tight, and would not let go. She said it was because the ghost was drawn to the brightness that dwelled in Greg. She said it missed being alive, and was trying to suck that joy and warmth from his body. Greg said that it explained why he felt so cold all of the time. Nana Olaf offered to perform an exorcism, but Greg's mother subsequently forbade it. She told Nana Olaf that she was scaring Greg and to tell him that there were no such things as ghosts. Nana Olaf said the words her daughter had wanted her to say, but when Greg's mother had gone, Nana gave Greg a serious look. She later told him that he needed to find a way to escape his ghost, but she never told him how.

Greg clung to the edge of the stair upon which he sat as icy tendrils unfolded across his skin from his head down. He knew, without a doubt, that he was haunted this time, only now he knew exactly why. When he was running red lights to get to this garage, he'd had a vision. And it was one that he hadn't wanted to dwell on too much, because he knew it made him look selfish, but also because it made him look naive. In his mind, he'd seen himself bursting into the garage, drawing his gun, arresting the kidnapper, untying a potentially unconscious Nick, and saving the day. And in this vision, Nick looked at him with the sincerest gratitude that ever existed, and he thanked Greg, said that if Greg hadn't come when he did, then Nick would have been dead. In his head, Greg was a hero. In reality, he was a witless CSI without a gun, who walked into what looked suspiciously more like a tryst than someone being held against his will.

But the worst part was, this wasn't what bothered Greg the most. What bothered Greg the most was that he was dwelling more on this failed fantasy than the fact that Nick was alive. Nick was _alive_, and where was Greg? In the middle of a stairway in the dark, halfway between up and down, angry and bitter that he'd missed his chance to prove himself, that Nick had somehow stolen it away from him by being conscious and mobile. Greg tried to bury his face in his knees.

"Greg?"

He looked up at the inquiry and saw Sara standing in the doorway.

"Is he up there?"

Greg wasn't sure how to answer. Someone was up there, talking with Riley, but who it was, he couldn't tell her. "Yeah, he's up there."

Sara was soon joined by Warrick, but it was difficult for two people to stand in the narrow corridor. "Anyone else up there with him?" Warrick demanded.

Greg shook his head. "No… Well… Riley's trying to figure out if his brain's been scrambled."

"What do you mean?" The panic in Sara's voice was palpable.

Greg shook his head, feeling helpless. "I don't know. Look, I just…" He rose to his feet and trudged down the rest of the stairs. "I need to get out of here."

Warrick and Sara didn't move. They were standing so close together, it would be impossible to get by if they didn't.

"What's wrong with his head, Greg?" Warrick asked. The hallway was dark, but light spilled in from the doorway behind them. It made it really difficult to see either Sara or Warrick's expressions.

"I don't _know_," Greg reiterated, because it was the absolute truth.

Warrick still wasn't satisfied, but Sara put a hand on his shoulder. If he was going to say anything else, he didn't. Instead, he stepped back through the doorway and into the light. Greg saw his face for the first time. It was stony, and somehow older, with lines that Greg swore he hadn't seen before.

He squeezed by Sara, catching a breath of citrus from her shampoo, and then he was in the office again. He started to move away, when her voice anchored him to the spot.

"Are you OK?"

He closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He wanted to turn around and tell her that he no, he wasn't OK. He wanted to ask her how she could even ask that question. He wanted to ask her if _she_ was OK, or if she, like him, felt ready to fall into pieces and slip through the cracks in the floor. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, breathe in that sour sweet smell of lemon and orange peel and let her catch him as he crumbled.

But he didn't even have the strength to lie to her. So he said nothing. Instead, he made a beeline for the front door and burst out into the humid air. The sun was high, and it beat down on him mercilessly. It didn't care what kind of day he was having. Greg stared at it, trying to go blind.

* * *

"So what is it, exactly, that you don't understand?" Riley said, slowly, after Greg slammed the door.

Nick exhaled an exhausted sigh. "I don't know… D'you think we could maybe sit down, or something? I'm getting a little dizzy."

Riley walked Nick over to the four poster bed, then hesitated as she saw the ropes hanging off of the posts. The purple comforter was disturbed, and she saw a variety of stains. She stopped.

"I can take you downstairs…" she offered.

"Are they down there?" Nick asked, looking uneasy.

"Who?" Riley inquired.

Nick swallowed. "Greg and them. Grissom, Sara, Cath, 'Rick…"

Riley looked over her shoulder at the closed door, then back at Nick. "Um, I'm not sure. Probably."

"Not yet then," Nick said. "I need to… I need to work some things out. Mind if we sit on the floor?"

Riley glanced at the hardwood beneath them. "Floor is good."

So they sat down, legs crossed, knee to knee.

Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Thanks," he said. "I just… It's been a long… time. How long has it been?"

Riley looked at her watch. "Thirty-four hours and eighteen minutes," she said.

Nick seemed mildly surprised. "Really?"

"Too long or too short?"

Nick's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm not sure… both?"

"How long does it feel like to you?"

"Years," Nick answered. "Days. I don't know. It's hard to explain."

Riley nodded. "Nick, why are you upset that we arrested Alexa?"

"Because it's not her fault," Nick explained, articulating his words forcefully so as to be sure he got his message across. "You have to know that. She doesn't know what she's doing half the time, she doesn't _mean_ it. She's sick, Riley, not evil."

Again, Riley nodded. "Nick…" she began slowly. "She beat three people to death. Would have done the same to you."

"I… don't think so…" Nick said, though he sounded uncertain. "I mean, she… maybe. But you didn't see her, this last hour or so, she was… calmer. It was like, she knew what she had done, and she wasn't going to fall back into that zone again. I think… I think she cares. You know? About what happens to me. She didn't want to kill me. She didn't want to kill anyone."

Link's face flashed across Riley's mind. She tried to suppress the surge of grief, but she couldn't keep herself from saying, a little severely, "She looked like she meant to kill them all."

"That's what I mean," Nick said. "You don't understand her."

"And you do?"

"Not entirely. But I understand her better than anyone else ever could."

And maybe it was the grief, or the stress, or the fact that she had been up for over twenty-four hours now, but Riley could have sworn he sounded like Link in that moment. She shook her head to clear it and swallowed to open her throat, then cleared it.

"You think she cares about you."

Nick nodded. "Mm hm."

"And what about you?" Riley asked. "Do you care about her?"

Nick didn't respond. He just looked at her with unwavering eyes.


	11. Channel Surfing

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks for the amazing reviews! Another long chapter for you.

Chapter Eleven: Channel Surfing

Riley opened the door to the staircase and closed it behind her before leaning against it. Nick had asked for a few minutes alone before he had to come downstairs and have paramedics crawling all over him, not to mention his friends and their questions. She saw two figures at the foot of the stairs, and they saw her too.

"Detective Adams?"

If she didn't answer, would they leave her alone? "Yeah." Her voice sounded louder than she'd intended, but flatter as well.

One of the figures began climbing the staircase.

"That's not helpful," Riley called. "It's stuffy enough in here without more people. Move into the office, I'll talk to you there."

The person on the stairs stopped, hesitated, then dutifully withdrew. The two at the foot of the stairs exited into the office. Riley slowly descended the steps, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She should have felt triumphant, relief, something more positive than what she actually felt. Nick's words pressed heavily on her mind, and she was torn between believing him, and seeking justice for Link.

When she reached the office, she realized that it was Sara and Warrick who had been at the foot of the stairs. Through the window, she could see Catherine speaking with Brass. Grissom was on the phone, off to the side, as if trying to get as far away from everything as possible. She didn't blame him. Riley saw no sign of Greg.

"Is he OK?" Sara asked.

"No, he's not OK," she couldn't help but snap. "He's…" She took a deep breath to calm herself down. "He has the same… wounds. Scar on his face, burn on his chest, ligature marks on the wrists and ankles."

Warrick nodded, folding his arms. "And his head? Where's that at?"

"On his neck," Riley said.

"Greg gave the impression that he was acting… I don't know," said Sara.

"It's nothing," Riley assured them, though she wasn't sure it was true. "Just a little Stockholm Syndrome, that's all. He's confused. He asked for a minute, to sort things out. Collect himself."

"Wait…" Warrick began, slowly. "You mean to tell me that he somehow connected with this woman?"

Riley tried to pass it off like it was nothing. "It happens sometimes. And it's not serious, he knows what she did was wrong, and that he was the victim, he just… understands her."

"Well, at least someone does," Sara said. "I still have no idea what the hell that girl was thinking."

"Me neither…" Riley said quietly, again thinking of Lincoln. She had somehow managed to push him under the surface of her consciousness for the past thirty hours, and now, all of a sudden, here he was again, his body continuously rising unbidden out of the murky depths of her mind, but she kept pushing him back down again, assuring herself that she would deal with him later.

And then, the door behind them opened. Warrick and Sara froze as Nick leaned against the door frame, blinking in the harsh sunlight that streamed through the windows. For a moment, no one knew what to do. Nick walked completely into the office, to the window, where he looked up at the sun and the blue sky. He put his hand flat against the glass.

"Where did they take her?" he asked, to no one in particular.

Sara brought her fist to her chest. "Nick…"

He turned around and looked blankly at her. "Alexa King. Where is she?"

"Booking," Warrick said, simply. "She's a serial killer, Nick."

"I know," he said. "I really wish everyone would stop telling me that like I'm stupid." He looked at Riley. "Could you take me there?"

"We're _taking_ you to a hospital," Sara insisted.

"I have to see her," Nick implored. "I have to make sure she's OK."

Warrick tried to protest. "Nick, she _kidnapped_ you—"

"Again, Warrick, I'm not stupid. I know who she is. I know what she's done. I know you all expect me to be traumatized, to hate her, to break down, but I can do all of that later. Right now, I just want to make sure she's OK."

Sara couldn't help but ask, "Nick… Why? Why do you care so much what happens to her?"

Nick made a point to look her in the eye, his gaze unwavering. "Because she let me go, Sara."

Riley saw them through the window before they even opened the door. But Warrick and Sara were still staring at Nick. The moment the door opened, Riley turned away from them in shame. She didn't know what she was ashamed of, she only knew she couldn't look at them.

"Pancho?"

Nick blinked, then turned his head to look at his parents. His mother wasted no time moving to embrace him. Nick closed his eyes and seemed to relax in her arms. She placed a hand on the back of his head, holding it over her shoulder. Nick opened his eyes and connected his gaze with his father's. Wordlessly, the judge stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his wife and son, protectively.

* * *

"You hate me." She turned her head to look at Nick, who was still leaning against the door to the bedroom. He was staring at the opposite side of the room where the floor met the wall. "That's why you won't look at me."

This seemed to startle him out of his trance, and he did exactly that. "No, that's not it."

"Then why not?" Alexa asked. "Why don't you hate me? _I_ hate me."

"D'you think…" Nick began, pensively, "that if your father had never touched you… Do you still think that you would be this way?"

Alexa blinked at him like a goldfish. She tried to think back to how she used to be before she turned eight. She remembered the games she played with the other children on the playground. She remembered the books she would read. She remembered how her teachers always trusted her to be the line leader because she never strayed from her path. She remembered Alfie, her rabbit, and how much comfort he had brought. She remembered that every secret she told him, she was certain her mother knew. And then, she remembered the day when Alfie had failed her.

"I don't know," she answered, honestly, in a whisper. "But I can't blame him for how I turned out, either. We are the people that we choose to be."

"But you didn't choose this," Nick said.

Alexa pulled her legs up onto the bed and crossed them. "I chose to stalk Dean Rogan. I chose to stop taking my pills. I chose to abduct, torture and kill him."

"Maybe you chose to stop taking your pills," Nick said. "But everything else—"

"Everything else was the _result_ of that," Alexa replied.

Nick took a step towards her. "But look at you now. Look! You're calm, collected, you know who I am… What?" She was shaking her head through his whole speech.

"It comes and it goes. You should know that by now. I need the pills, to keep on track. I need the pills to stay this way."

"So we'll get them," Nick vowed, falling to his knees by the bed and looking up at her, as if it were a proposal, a promise. "We will, we'll get the pills, get you on track again."

She smiled at him, almost as if he was the child and she was the adult. "Nick…" She closed her eyes, and her smile disappeared. "You should go."

"I can't leave you like this."

"I can't go to prison," she breathed, "and I can't kill you. I can't keep you here. I can't move forward, I can't go back." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. "I have a gun downstairs. Remember?"

He took her hands in his. "No," he said, "_No._ No, Alexa, this happened to me before. I couldn't save her. At the time… I wasn't sure I wanted to."

"And you want to save me?" She sounded touched, but confused.

"I…" He wasn't sure what to say. "I think I _have_ to save you."

"Why? Why, after everything I've done to you, your family, friends…"

"I think I have to save you to save myself."

Alexa was quiet. "I can feel it…" she breathed, turning away from Nick on the bed. She put her hands on her stomach. "Bubbling, in there, this fear… desperation… rage. Like a parasite, twisting and slashing. Destruction, I rain destruction, and I feel the storm."

There was banging from downstairs. Nick looked up. Someone was yelling.

In a second, she went from a resolved woman to a terrified little girl. She hugged her knees to her chest. "Who's there?"

Nick hushed her as he rose to his feet. He put up his palm to her. "Stay there. I won't let them hurt you." He walked over to the door again and placed his ear against the wood, his hand on the metal knob. He waited, straining to hear any sound. Someone was climbing the stairs. In a flash, Nick opened the door. What happened next happened in the span of two seconds. First, he saw Greg, and then he saw Greg fall. In a panic, he lashed out, gripping his friend's arm and yanking him into the room, where he stumbled. Stumbled, and stared.

* * *

Sara and Warrick burst into the garage and saw an officer at the door marked Employees Only. He held up a hand.

"Whoa," he said. "Sidle, Brown, I have instructions not to let any more people up there until we secure the scene."

"What _is_ the scene, exactly, Faber?" Warrick said. "At least tell me he's _alive_ up there." His voice was level, and normal speaking volume, but his anxiety was reflected in his tense stance. It wasn't a demand so much as a plea for reassurance.

"From what I hear, he's alive," Faber assured the both of them.

Sara shoulders fell and she closed her eyes with a sigh. Warrick remained tense.

"Is he hurt?" he asked, his voice becoming a low rumble. "How bad is he?"

Faber offered his hands to them, palms up. "I can't say. I just got a glimpse of it. Detectives Brass and Adams are up there right now determining if he—"

"Adams?" Sara broke in. "What's she doing here?"

Faber shrugged. "I'm not sure, ma'am, she was here when we got here."

"How did he look?" Warrick continued, as if Sara hadn't said anything. "I mean, was he awake?"

"Warrick…" Sara began slowly. "If Riley Adams is here, then so is—"

"Faber?" Warrick would pay no attention to Sara until he got his answer.

"He looked… fine!" a frazzled Faber replied, withering under Warrick's gaze. "He was walking around, talking even."

Finally, Warrick allowed his body to relax. "What did he say?"

Faber shrugged. "I didn't catch it all. Brass sent me down here to keep everyone out. It's a pretty cramped space up there, you know. Metcalfe and Garcia are still there, along with the detectives, not to mention Nick Stokes and your guy."

Warrick's brow furrowed in bafflement. "Our guy?"

Sara paled. "Greg," she breathed. And then she pushed past Faber to the door and threw it open.

"Hey, wait!" Faber cried out.

But even as he did, she stepped back slowly, one step at a time. Faber and Warrick watched as Metcalfe entered the room, followed by a woman in handcuffs, staring at the floor, followed by Garcia. The party was rounded up by Brass in the rear. He paused a moment, locking his eyes with Warrick and Sara in turn, but he didn't say a word. The woman's yellow hair fell in sheets on either side of her face, so it was difficult to get a good look at her. Warrick and Sara watched soundlessly as they led her outside. Brass closed the door behind them. He waited a minute before turning to face Sara and Warrick.

Sara saw it first. The way the balls of Warrick's feet dug into the ground. The way his knees bent ever so slightly, and the way his shoulders lurched forward and she reached out with her hand and her voice.

"Stop it."

Taking only a single, but driven step towards the door, Warrick halted as if she had lassoed him and looked at her over his shoulder.

"Don't you _know_ who that—"

"Warrick, I do."

He shook his head, with a scathing smile. "This isn't you, Sara Sidle. Time was, I'd have to restrain _you_ from kicking a perp's ass."

She looked sharply away from him. "Times change."

"And why now?"

"Because they _do_," Sara snapped. She was fiddling with a silver chain bracelet on her left hand. "There are other things we have to consider."

"She's right," Brass put in. "What would you do to her, anyways? You're like a dog chasing a car."

Warrick opened his mouth to argue, when he realized Brass was right. The woman that incited so much loathing in him was a tiny, pale thing. Despite his passion, he probably wouldn't have been able to hit her without feeling some sort of guilt. He blamed his grandmother for raising him to never hit a person who couldn't hit back. He grumbled a bit, but calmed down.

"Sara," Brass said. "Greg is having some trouble dealing with the situation. I don't think he's making things better. Riley looked a little overwhelmed. If you could just go up and get Greg, maybe talk to him… He'll listen to you."

Chalk white, Sara nodded slowly. "What is he doing here, anyway?"

Brass rolled his eyes. "God, I don't know. Something about finding Nick's car on the way back to the lab. Riley was nonspecific. We didn't exactly have time to trade notes." He paused. "He was the first one in here. He was the first one to see—"

There was a jarring, continuous screeching from outside, like a banshee. Both Warrick and Sara stiffened, while Brass just spun around and stared out the window.

"What the _hell_ is that?" he demanded, of no one in particular. He whirled around again, facing Sara and Warrick. "All right, you two, wait here, I have to take care of this. Sara?"

She nodded.

"What about me?" Warrick asked.

"When he comes down," Brass began, "Nick will need you. Just do what you did last time, Warrick, and don't let him go." And with that, he was gone.

Sara took a deep breath, then turned to the stairwell, creeping inside. Curiosity urged Warrick to follow. They could make out a figure, sitting on the stairs.

"Greg?" Sara called, her voice hanging like bells in the air.

* * *

When Catherine arrived with the others at the crime scene, Sara and Warrick were the first to dart out of the door and into the garage. Catherine hung back with Grissom, almost wary of what they might find inside. She felt as if she should be rushing to the rescue with her friends, but something in her turned to stone, and she felt too heavy to continue beyond getting out of the car and watching. She heard Grissom take a stand beside her and watch the house.

"I would have expected you to rush in with them," she told him. "Like last time."

She felt Grissom's shoulders rise beside her, and then heard him sigh. "There are two detectives and half a dozen officers in there. More bodies would just make it more difficult."

"Yeah…" Catherine said. "That's why I didn't rush in, either."

They were each quiet a moment.

"Do you think he'll be OK?" she managed to ask.

"Nick survived twelve hours in a box underground," Grissom said, his voice devoid of any discernable emotion. "He's handled unstable individuals on several occasions with admirable sensibility and composure."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I'm just stating the evidence. Establishing a pattern."

_There shouldn't _be_ a pattern at all_, she thought to herself. Silence fell over them again. Catherine looked down at her black dress shoes, then back up at the building. Feeling Grissom breathing steadily beside her was a comfort for which she could never fully express her gratitude. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her forearms as she felt a chill standing under the hot Las Vegas sun, even as a bead of sweat rolled down behind her ear.

She decided to address the proverbial elephant in the room. "You know… if he's… _alive_…" She hated that it was necessary to add that qualification. "Whoever comes out of that place, no matter what… It won't be Nick. Not the Nick that we knew."

Grissom didn't respond right away. He took his time, choosing his words. "No," he admitted. "Not right now. Not yet. It never is, is it?"

"Do you remember Nigel Crane?" Catherine inquired. "The look on Nick's face, after we arrested him? I'd never seen that look in his eyes before."

"And I remember his expression, when Warrick swiped away the dirt from that glass coffin," Grissom explained. "Yes, Catherine. I remember all of that."

"How has he not gone crazy?" Catherine breathed, astounded. "And I know we're both thinking it. Is this it, the final straw, and the back breaks?"

"He always comes back to us, Catherine," Grissom continued, as if she hadn't said anything. "The Nick that we know. He always does."

It occurred to Catherine that Nick's therapist probably saw him more than his friends did. But Grissom was right. However he did it, whatever happened, Nick always managed to find a way to come back to them. Maybe this time would be no different than before.

Just as the thought scurried across the surface of her mind, the door to the garage opened and a pair of officers exited escorting a woman in handcuffs between them. Catherine stiffened. She instinctively reached out and squeezed Grissom's hand. For his part, his back was rigid like a granite cliff face and he stood taller than normal. Both pairs of eyes followed the woman to the cop car. Catherine couldn't stand it. Finally, she uprooted her feet from the ground and stomped over, her hand slipping out of Grissom's grip. By the time she got to the cop car, Officer Metcalfe was about to shut the door on the prisoner. She put a hand on his shoulder and the look in her eyes told him to step aside. Wordlessly, he obliged. There was an unspoken understanding between law enforcement agents. When one of their own was involved, certain favors were granted under the table, and no one ever spoke of them again.

She crouched down beside the criminal in the car, who was staring at the black wire barrier between the two front seats. She didn't seem to notice that Catherine was there, but Catherine knew that Alexa King wasn't deaf. So she spoke.

"I don't know who you are," she said, "and I don't know what wires are crossed in your brain, or what childhood trauma you have. I'm sure your story is very tragic, and worthy of sympathy. I'm sure, if I'd heard it last week, I might have even cared. But I don't."

Slowly, Alexa's head turned, but the rest of her body faced forward. She looked at Catherine with porcelain eyes.

Catherine didn't waver. "What matters to me is the trail of carnage you have left in your wake as you worked through your issues. What matters to _me_, Ms. King, is Nick Stokes. And so help me God, if he doesn't come back from this, then neither will you. Do you understand?"

She blinked her wide, doe-like eyes at Catherine for a moment, before turning to face forward again. Catherine felt something in her gut sizzle. She lashed out and latched onto Alexa's arm, her fingers digging into the skin.

"I don't care how crazy you are, answer me!" she demanded in a hiss.

Alexa screamed. It was shrill and piercing, and Catherine knew that the whole neighborhood must have heard it, but Metcalfe, who was standing by the door and resolutely looking straight ahead of him like a soldier on duty, didn't move. Catherine was grateful for his stoicism. Alexa began wriggling in her seat, pausing in her relentless shrieks only to take deep breaths and continue her aural onslaught. She was writhing in Catherine's grip, turning her head from side to side, trying to move her cuffed hands and finding that she couldn't. She kicked the back of the passenger's seat and banged her head back against her own seat. Catherine somehow managed to grip her other shoulder, and she slapped the girl so hard across the face, she managed to silence the siren.

Alexa blinked at her, panting like a dog, her face pale. Her whole body shook with her breathing, and for a moment, Catherine wondered if she was hyperventilating. And then, her breathing slowed, and her eyes refocused. The wild in them was chased away, and she tilted her head to the side, as if seeing Catherine for the first time. And then, her lids grew heavy, and she fell limp.

Catherine wasn't entirely sure what had just happened. If it wasn't for Alexa's chest rising up and down, Catherine might have thought she had just dropped dead. She straightened and pulled herself away from the car. Metcalfe glanced at her and their eyes met for an instant. Her lips were parted, her expression almost guilty, but Metcalfe just nodded at her with tight lips and an understanding gaze.

Catherine returned to Grissom's side as Metcalfe closed the door and climbed into the passenger's seat of the cop car.

"You shouldn't have done that," Grissom said. They watched as Brass exited the building and shrugged his shoulders at the pair of them.

Catherine looked up at the man next to her and saw that he was smiling.

* * *

Alexa sat at the table, looking from one of the strange men in front of her to the next. Her eyes were wide and red, her face pasty and splotched with dried saline. She didn't remember how she'd gotten there; she only knew that she was here now. The last thing she remembered was sitting on the bed, speaking with her father. Who were these men that held her now, and what had they done with Louis?

"I don't understand…" she whispered. "Why won't you let me see my father?"

The men exchanged looks. "Ms. King, do you know where we are?"

She looked around. "In a room. It's cold and gray and not very pretty. Where's my daddy?"

"Ms. King, I'm Jim Brass," one of the men said. "We have a doctor on her way to examine you. After that, you will be taken to a holding cell. Do you know why?"

She shook her head and tried to shrug. That's when she felt the chains. She looked down and realized that her hands were bound by metal. Was this another game her father was playing?

"I just want my daddy," Alexa said, quietly.

"Alexa, your father is dead," the one called Brass said, slowly, but his words were sharp.

She shook her head. "I don't believe you. I just saw him. Just… just saw him."

"You _think_ you saw him," the other one explained. "But that wasn't him, Alexa."

"I don't understand…" She looked from one to the other. "I just saw him. If he's dead, it's because _you_ killed him." She pounded her chained fists on the table. "Where's my daddy? I _want_ my _daddy_!"

"Whoa, OK…" Brass said. He looked at the other. "Gil?"

The one called Gil nodded and rose to his feet. He went to the door and stepped outside a moment. Alexa watched, her head tilted curiously, trying to figure out where that door led. A moment later, it opened again, and Gil was back… followed by her.

Alexa leapt to her feet and kicked the chair back, shrieking. "_No!_"

* * *

"Why did you do that?" Nick demanded, his hands flat against the viewing window. "She hates her mother!"

"Nicky, please," Catherine said in soothing tones. "Step back from the glass."

He did, reluctantly, but he began pacing the floor. "This is stupid. You shouldn't have done that, she's going to hurt herself."

"She's handcuffed," Catherine said. "What harm can she—"

There was a crash and Nick's head spun on his neck to see that somehow, Alexa had managed to overturn the table. Grissom and Brass were with her trying to restrain her, and two officers ran into the room to help. Alexa was spitting and biting furiously while her mother just stood there and watched.

"I told you, you don't know what she's capable of," Nick said, gesturing at the glass. "You'll never get her back now— Please, just let me talk to her?"

A cold voice from the corner said, "Since when did you become the expert on crazy?"

Nick closed his eyes and turned to look at his friend. "Greg…"

"The psychologist said it would be best if she saw her mother," Greg continued. "Why do you know better than a trained professional?"

"Because I know _her_," Nick returned through gritted teeth. "She's like a busted TV set, her channels keep flipping. But you gotta know which buttons to push."

"Why is he even here, anyway?" Greg demanded, this time addressing his question to Catherine.

Somehow, the blonde managed to remain cool and collected. "He's promised to get all checked out after we're done with this," she explained, evenly.

Greg stepped forward. "You put on a shirt," he said, "but just because I can't see them doesn't mean I don't remember those bandages. You really need to see a doctor about—"

"Alexa fixed it," Nick insisted. "She took pretty good care of me— stitched the cut on my cheek, wrapped the burn on my chest—"

"Jesus Christ, are you kidding?" Greg exploded. "She's the one that slashed and burned you in the _first_ place, and you're complimenting her _nursing skills_?"

"Greg, settle down," Catherine ordered. She turned to the other man. "Nick…" She chewed on her lip and looked into the interrogation room, where Brass was screaming for a sedative. She knew just the one to give him. "Go talk to her."

Greg gaped. "What?"

But Nick was already gone.

* * *

Nick opened the door to the interview room. Alexa's wails were far more piercing in here than they had been over the speaker. Her mother saw him first. She stared at him like he was something alien. And then, she said one word, only one word, and it was so quiet, Nick couldn't even hear it over the commotion. But he saw her lips move.

"_Louis…_"

Nick looked at her, meeting her for the first time, and feeling like he should say something, anything. But then he remembered Alexa, who was on the floor being pinned down by an officer, and he called out to her. "Lexa!"

And just like that, she stopped. Stopped biting, stopped kicking, stopped shrieking. She tilted her head back, trying to see, and she said, in the smallest of voices, "Daddy?"

Grissom and Brass were staring at him. "Nick, you shouldn't be here…" Brass said, his tone hinting at reprimand.

Nick didn't look at him. Instead, he went to Alexa's side. "Please, can you get off her?" he said to the officer. Slowly, he did, and Alexa sat up, crossing her legs as she did so, looking at Nick with adulation.

"Oh, Daddy, they said you were dead!" She tried to hug him, but Nick caught her bound hands and laid them in her lap again. "I didn't believe them, though. I knew they were lying." She shot daggers at Joanna. "They work for _her_."

"No, sweetheart, they don't," Nick said, his voice shaking. "Lexa…"

She was watching him as if he could do no wrong. "Yes, Daddy?"

His tongue shot out and licked his lips. "There's something very important that I have to tell you, OK? And you have to listen. Can you do that for me, darlin'?"

Alexa nodded, quickly. "Of course, Daddy, I'm listening."

"You trust me, don't you Lexa?"

"With every cell that I have in me."

Nick felt a pang in his chest. Those were the words he had used when describing his own love for his parents. Alexa must have internalized them.

"Good, Alexa. Good." He looked at Brass and Grissom, as well as Joanna and the officers. "Alexa, I'm going to have to go away for a while."

She cocked her head and blinked like a fawn. "Where are you going?"

He inhaled a trembling breath. "I'm going somewhere so that I can be a better person. For you."

"But you're already perfect, Daddy."

"I know that you think that. But I'm not, darlin', I'm not. And… you're going to have to go away for a while, too. Just a little while."

She withdrew from him ever so slightly. "Where am I going?"

"Alexa…" He swallowed. "Because of something that a mean old monster did to you many years ago, you did some things. Some bad things. Do you know what I'm talking about, sweetheart?"

Her expression changed. It wasn't drastic, and it wasn't quick, but a shadow fell over it, and suddenly her eyes held a different hue. "Yes, Daddy, I know."

"Well… well, because of these things that you did. You're gonna have to go away." He looked up at Brass. "To a hospital. They're going to make you better, sweetheart."

"But I was just looking for you, Daddy," she said, almost desperately. "I just wanted to find you again. So that I could show you what you did to me."

Nick couldn't keep the tremor from his voice. "I know… But you've hurt a _lot_ of people. And it's time that you realize that. It's time, Alexa, that you remember who you are. And who I am."

Her eyes turned to glass. She reminded Nick of a porcelain doll that had fallen under the bed. Her face was smudged and puffy, but there was still something timelessly beautiful about those deep forest eyes. Slowly, she turned her head, looking at each person in the room in turn. She stopped when she saw her mother.

"Joanna."

The woman had black streaks from the edges of her eyes. She nodded. "Hello, baby girl."

"Joanna…" Alexa breathed. "Joanna, Joanna… Mamma. Mamma, why didn't you get my message, Mamma?"

Joanna seemed confused. "What message, baby?"

"The first time…" Alexa said. "The first time he ever… he touched me. You said, I could tell Alfie anything and then he would tell you and you would know, you'd _know_, Mamma… Mamma, why didn't you know?"

"Oh, my sweet baby girl…" Joanna sobbed. She ran to her daughter and kneeled down, gathering her up in her arms.

Nick rose to his feet as they sat there on the floor, together. He watched them a long time before he felt someone else's eyes on him. He tried to meet Grissom's stony gaze, but found it too difficult. "I'm sorry…" he said. "But she needed to see me."

"You're right," Grissom said. "She did."

Nick looked at the mirror. He wondered if Greg had seen that. He knew that he needed to talk to him. And that he had a promise to Catherine to keep. He walked briskly to the door, when he heard a tiny sound. Like the coo of a dove.

"Thank you…"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Joanna still held Alexa, but the young girl's eyes were open and focused on Nick. She looked at Brass.

"Do I need… a lawyer?"

Brass held his breath. "It wouldn't be a bad idea."

Alexa nodded. "OK." She looked at Nick again. "Really. Thank you. Thank you, Nick."

The lump in his throat prohibited him from responding. There was nothing left for him to do. So he just left.


	12. Stains

**_Author's Note:_** OK, shorter chapter this week, because it used to be one super long mega chapter, but it's now two smaller ones. Read and review, kids. Sharing (your thoughts) is caring!

Chapter Twelve: Stains

Sara stared at the grimy looking purple bed cover. "This thing doesn't look like it's been washed since… ever."

Her partner didn't respond. He still lingered by the door, refusing to enter. Sara sighed and pulled out her measurements and camera. She placed them by a sizeable dark stain of what the phenolphthalein had confirmed as blood and snapped a picture. She swabbed it for DNA.

"You gonna hang out over there forever, or am I going to get some help over here?" She lowered the camera, then turned her head to look at Warrick.

"Why are we here, Sara?" he asked.

"To make our case."

"We caught her red handed."

Sara sighed and pursed her lips. "People are tricky, Warrick. _Lawyers_ are tricky. Sure, we have her for our vic's abduction, maybe we can even get her on attempted murder. But the others? People lie. We need evidence. Evidence takes those lies and slaughters them with a chainsaw."

Warrick actually smiled. "Perhaps the most violent way I've ever heard anyone paraphrase Gil Grissom."

Sara felt a tinge of pink creep slowly into her cheeks and she looked away from him and at the bedspread again. The sight of all that filth immediately chased all the color away. She placed another marker. The camera flashed.

"How many donors are we talking about here?"

"Hard to say…" Sara muttered. "Could use a hand sorting them all out, though."

"This room…" Warrick began, looking around. "It kind of makes me claustrophobic. Do you feel that?"

Sara snapped another photo. "Feel what?"

"That heavy pressure… it's weighing me down. Like the room's haunted or something." He watched her as she moved around the bed. She could feel his eyes on her. She tried to ignore him, gritting her teeth as she swabbed another stain and took out the phenolphthalein. She could still feel Warrick watching her, and it was beginning to make her hand shake.

"How are you doing this?" she heard him ask.

She sprayed her swab. "Doing what?"

"Remaining so… focused. So collected."

"I'm good at what I do."

"You are," Warrick agreed. "But… You know, you haven't even said Nick's name since we got up here. You keep calling him a victim."

She closed her eyes. She really wished he hadn't said that. Sara had been succeeding at convincing herself that this was someone else's crime scene, someone else's tragedy, and she was only playing the role of Crime Scene Investigator, which was the role she played best. She didn't like to be in the lime light, and she much preferred cameo appearances in stories like these. She could never be the grieving widow or the horror-struck mother or the heartbroken friend.

When she opened her eyes again, she didn't see stains, but faces. Contorted constellations painting gruesome images of the torture that this bed had seen. She saw Nick in every thread, in every frayed edge, in every mark on that bed sheet. She tried to chase the thoughts away. And then, nausea gripped her stomach with a rusted iron fist. She leapt to her feet and stepped away from the bed, as if it were toxic.

"What is it?" Warrick asked.

Sara's voice was even when she said, "Semen."

This managed to propel Warrick into the room in a way that nothing else had before. "What do you mean, semen?"

"I mean stuff of sperm," Sara reiterated. "Sticky white fluid, center of the bed."

"Are you sure?"

"I've seen enough semen in my work to know what it looks like." She paused. "That didn't come out right."

Warrick let the opportunity for a good-spirited barb pass. He marched to where she stood and looked where she was looking. They stood in silence, each of them staring at the same stain. "We don't know it's his," he finally said.

"No, we don't," she conceded.

"It could be anyone's."

"It could."

"Doesn't mean it's his."

"No, it doesn't."

The silence crept back into the room and slowly engulfed it.

She felt Warrick move beside her as he fervently grabbed some swabs. "It's not your job to just stand there," he growled, swabbing the stain.

Sara let the opportunity to point out his hypocrisy pass. She got to work.

* * *

"I don't understand…" Wendy said slowly as she looked at the evidence Warrick had handed her. "You've booked her. She's all but confessed. You have Nick as a witness – isn't this case sort of open and shut?"

There was something about Warrick's eyes that seemed off somehow. They were murky, like a lake polluted with sludge. She would have thought he'd be happy. Nick was back, and more or less OK, aside from the strange affection he had for his kidnapper, the burn, the scar… Wendy gulped, realizing that "OK" perhaps was not the best adjective in this instance.

"There were multiple samples on the bed," Warrick explained. "Blood, and other fluids. We need to determine their donors, so we can figure out exactly how many victims there are."

Wendy saw the labels on the evidence swabs. Blood, saliva, unknown, semen… "Wow, what _didn't_ happen on this bed?" And then, she realized, this was Nick's crime scene. It's not like she hadn't known that. But now, she fully understood what it meant. She looked up at Warrick, almost panicked. "Wait. You don't think she…"

"According to her mother," Warrick began, "Alexa King developed an unhealthy relationship with her father in response to him repeatedly molesting her."

"Like… an Electra Complex?"

Warrick didn't respond. "Clearly, she had some sort of depraved fantasies surrounding him, and if she thought that the men she abducted were her father, then—"

"Got it," Wendy said, cutting him off. "Really, no further details necessary. D'you know, Electra never actually was in love with Agamemnon?"

Warrick looked tired. He closed his eyes tightly before opening them. "What?"

"Electra," Wendy reiterated. "The complex was named after her? She just killed her mother because her mother killed her father. It was filial vengeance, not incest. In fact, in no version of the story do they actually ever have sex."

And somehow, Warrick actually managed to smile. "I guess Grissom's not the only one who has random facts locked away in his head."

"I once had a brief fascination with ancient Greek literature in college," Wendy explained. "You know, when I found out that all the PG-rated myths I'd heard as a child were actually NC-17." She pointed at him. "Oedipus, though? Totally killed Laius before screwing Jocasta. Didn't know they were his parents at the time, though, and therein lies the tragedy."

Warrick cocked an eyebrow. "Thanks for the literature lesson." He pointed at the evidence. "Let me know the _minute_ you have results on those."

She looked apprehensively at the semen samples, but plastered on a happy face. "Aye, aye, captain!"

When he was gone, she gulped again.

* * *

When the doctor briefed Nick on the procedures of changing his bandages and left the room, Greg did not follow him. He just stayed in his seat in the corner and watched as Nick pulled his shirt back on. It became so uncomfortable for the older man, that he cast Greg a suggestive look.

"Some reason you're staring so hard, G?"

Greg was startled by the comment and shook his head. "What? No." He wrinkled his brow and thought about it. "Gross."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

Greg caught his bottom lip between his teeth. His hands were clasped together and sandwiched between his knees. "You're OK."

"That's what the doctors say. You heard 'em, so don't pretend like I'm acting tough or something."

"No, I know."

Nick cocked an eyebrow. "Then why the weird look on your face?"

His expression only grew weirder. "I don't have a weird look on my face."

Nick took a deep breath and held it a moment before sighing. "Yes, you do. Spill."

But Greg could only look at him. "I… It's stupid."

"What's stupid?"

"The stuff that I'm thinking."

Nick scratched the back of his neck. "Well, Greg, let me tell you, whatever's going on in your head can't be half as crazy as the thoughts I've heard today."

Greg winced. "Don't _do_ that."

"Do what?"

"Joke about that… That's like something I'd do, and if it's something I'd do, then it's stupid, so cut it out."

Nick folded his arms. "So, what, is everything you do stupid now?"

Greg nodded, seriously. "Pretty much."

"OK, I'll make a note," Nick said, slowly. "Don't do what Greg would do."

"Right," Greg said. "Words to live by."

There was a strange silence as Nick expected Greg to share what was on his mind. For a moment, he wondered if he should press any further, or leave the man to his thoughts. He tried to look at things from where Greg was standing. Maybe he could guess what was bugging him. He moved around the hospital bed and sat on the end of it, watching his friend, trying to figure him out.

"Look…" Nick began, slowly. "I know that the past thirty-some hours must not have been fun for you. So let me guess. You thought you were gonna lose me. Again. It scared you, you felt helpless… Am I warm?"

Greg managed a half shrug. "Sort of… But that's not what's bugging me."

"Penny for your thoughts."

"My thoughts are worth more than that."

Nick shrugged. "How about a bourbon then?"

Greg let out a curt, barking laugh. "Yeah, I could go for a…" He stopped to think, and a wistful smile shining on his face for an instant before chased away by a cloud of remorse. "A gin and tonic, maybe."

Nick snorted. "Pansy drink."

"Oh, whatever," Greg returned. He paused. "I had sex with Riley."

Nick didn't seem to know how to respond to this, so he held up a tentative hand. "High five?"

"While you were gone, I mean," Greg clarified. "She and I… hooked up in a…" and then, he laughed, "in an airplane lavatory. It was on our way back to Vegas from St. Louis, where nothing helped."

Nick still seemed unsure of why this was some big load off of Greg's chest. "OK, so you're a member of the Mile High Club now. Congrats."

"You don't understand," said Greg, tensing up. "When we… When it happened. I… felt good. For a minute."

"Well, I should hope so," Nick said. "Unless you somehow did it wrong. Which I could believe from you, but she looks like a woman who knows what she's doing."

"Nick, stop it." It wasn't snippy or annoyed. It was quiet, and full of self-loathing, and so unlike the Greg that he knew, that Nick did, in fact stop. He sealed his lips, looked at the floor, then up at Greg again, waiting for him to continue. "I forgot. About everything. For one, brief, beautiful moment, it was just me, and this gorgeous girl, miles away from… everything. I forgot about you, Nick."

And then, Nick understood. He clapped his hands together and put them to his lips. "Oh, Greg…"

"Told you it was stupid," Greg muttered. "And that's only part of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

Nick knew it was far from nothing. "Well, Greg, I forgive you for having sex while I was missing. Feel better?"

"No," Greg deadpanned, as if it was obvious. "You are the _worst_ listener in the world. Probably the universe."

"What, I listened!" Nick cried. He sighed, and grew serious. "Greg… We all need our escapes. Somewhere to run off to when things get really bad. We all need to forget who we are sometimes, what our lives are like, what's been done to us, what _we've_ done… You shouldn't feel bad about that."

"OK," Greg said.

"OK, what?" Nick pressed.

"OK, _now_ I think I feel… a _little_ better," he confessed. Then, he smiled.

"So what about the rest of the iceberg?"

"What?"

Nick gave him an _as if you don't know what I mean_ look.

"No," Greg said, shaking his head. "That's enough sharing for right now. I'm tired… can we push the drink to tomorrow? I've been up for… feels like forever." He rose to his feet and stretched.

Nick smiled. "Sure thing. Headed home?"

Greg nodded, sleepily. "Mm…" He made for the door, then paused. "Nick… What you just said, about needing to forget sometimes… You were talking about _her_, too, weren't you?"

Nick said nothing for a moment. Then, "Get some rest, Greg. We can talk in the morning."

* * *

Everyone had gone home. It had been an exhausting day. The lab was practically empty, except for a few members from swing shift who were covering the necessary bases. But after a thirty-four hour city-wide manhunt, everyone needed a little time off. Twelve hours ago, the lab had been a flurry of activity, but now it was practically dead. No one remained but the zombies.

The deadest of them all sat at her desk, staring at papers, and wishing them to reveal that she'd made some sort of error. She was tired, after all. The stress and adrenaline of wondering whether or not Nick would return to them alive had been bad enough, but then there was all the pressure from the understandably panicked CSIs to work faster, run the evidence again, find new connections…

She had found a connection all right. It just wasn't the one she had wanted to find. She shuffled the papers and then turned them face down on the table, unable to look at them. _It's not like you hadn't expected this_, Wendy told herself. The second Warrick came by with that evidence, she had _known_ what she'd find. But knowing what she would find still hadn't prepared her to find it. She had promised Warrick she would let him know as soon as she had the results, but she had another call to make, first. She knew that Mandy had given Nick his phone when he had returned to the lab, as they no longer needed it for evidence. So she dialed.

She waited, her breath in her throat.

"Nick Stokes' phone, Jillian Stokes speaking."

Wendy hesitated. "Um… Hello… Mrs. Stokes… This is Wendy Simms, from the DNA lab. I was hoping I could talk to Nick. Please?"

"He's sleeping, I'm afraid," said Nick's mother. "He's been through quite a lot today. Could I take a message?"

"Uh…" She highly doubted this was a message Nick wanted his mother to hear. "No, no… That's fine. Just, um… tell him that I'm glad he's OK."

She hung up and stared at the back side of her results. Slowly, she crept her fingers to the corner and curled it back, taking a peek to make sure that they still were what she thought they were. She let them fall to the table immediately, as if turning them over would release some gargantuan spider that would scuttle across her desk and escape into the lab.

She put a hand over her mouth, then slid it up across her cheek, then back down again. She wasn't prepared for this. Wendy Simms had been working at the lab for less than a year. She had heard about the drama with Nick Stokes that had occurred when she'd arrived. It had been one of the incidents her predecessor, Mia Dickerson, had cited in her two weeks' notice. The lab had been, in Mia's words, 'too stressful of a work environment' for her, and she had gone to seek 'less traumatic employment.' When Wendy had read those words after snooping through files in Ecklie's office under the pretense of searching for a pen, she had assumed that this Mia person was being melodramatic. Or, if not, then Mia was probably one of those people who just couldn't handle the high pressure of a job in fighting crime. Maybe Mia was one of those 'just business' types who objected to the intimate, family atmosphere of the lab. Whatever the reason, Wendy had thought she'd been different, on all accounts.

"_A man couldn't ask for a better scientist to fill his shoes._" Those were the words Greg Sanders had uttered to her with pride after she'd broken her first case for him. She'd scoffed, at the time, said she didn't need anyone's approval, least of all the man whom she'd replaced. She'd told him, "_Only quitters become field mice._" Greg had feigned injury, but they both knew, she was sure, that Wendy had been touched by his remarks.

And Nick. Nick Stokes, who had just the week before, asked her to reach into his pants and pull out a napkin, while simultaneously flashing her an exhausted but amused _Oh, grow up!_ smile as she laughed. She hadn't so much been laughing at reaching into his pockets as she had been laughing at poor Nick's entire situation, which would have had her in stitches the whole day if she also hadn't found it somewhat sad at the same time. But when Nick, standing there shirtless, looking like a tiny, angry puppy dog, had asked her to reach into his front pocket because _he_ hadn't had gloves on, that had just been all Wendy could take. But when _she'd_ laughed, she'd seen Nick smile. And it hadn't been that frustrated, _I want to go home right now_, smile. And she liked to think that she'd been a part of that, somehow.

Now, the thought of reaching into Nick's pockets didn't amuse her in the slightest. So what could she do, but call Warrick about this evidence? Moreover, what did the evidence say about Nick? He was peculiarly close with Alexa King in a way that sent shivers up Wendy's spine. Had she somehow hypnotized Nick into some sort of trance? Brain wash, maybe?

She stopped herself when she realized that she was beginning to sound like Archie and Henry. She shook herself out to wake up. It had been a long day, after all. Maybe she needed to go home. Everyone else had gone home. She was the only one still there, apart from swing shift. So, she took the loathsome test results and stuck them in a manila envelope and slipped it into her bottom drawer, under a pile of old beakers and graduated cylinders. She would tell Warrick only after she had the chance to warn Nick about what the findings revealed.


	13. Landmark Case

**_Author's Note:_** You may have noticed the lack of update last week. That was a conscious, but spontaneous choice. First of all, I haven't been writing lately and I should be finished by now (but I'm not). Second of all, I was considering a few things, and a few people to whom I want to reply (but I still haven't done that either). And thirdly, graduate school. Which is kind of a bitch. But at any rate - I present chapter thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen: Landmark Case

It was 9:05PM and Greg was beginning to get nervous. He tapped his finger to the side of his moist water glass and watched the door, caught between inhale and exhale, waiting to breathe again. _It's only five minutes_, he told himself. _Nothing to worry about, probably traffic_. And then, he wondered what sort of traffic there was at 9:00 at night. Or at 9:05, to be precise. And precision mattered to Greg, especially when waiting on a friend who, twenty-four hours earlier, had been missing. He watched his phone as the digital clock changed to 9:06. Greg's eyes flew to the ceiling and down again. They were the longest six minutes of his life.

And then, the door opened, and Greg let out the breath he had been holding as he saw Nick hurry through, tipping his hat at the waitress as he slid into Greg's booth.

Greg glared at him. "Where've you been?"

Nick frowned, as if unaware of what Greg was so anxious about. "What are you talking about?" he checked his watch. "Were we supposed to meet earlier?"

"You're six minutes late," Greg said. "Six minutes. I never had to wait six minutes for anything, not even in the seventh grade in the closet with Sheila Monroy."

Nick cocked an eyebrow. "Was she that easy?"

"No," Greg returned. "After three minutes of trying to avoid kissing her, I panicked and burst out of that place like a bat out of hell. But that's not the point."

Nick sighed, his expression sobering. He ran a hand through his hair and managed a shrug. "Greg… I'm sorry. I guess my watch is a little slow, all right? I thought I left on time. I didn't mean to freak you out."

Greg was clearly still agitated. He wriggled in his seat, tensing his muscles and dragging his hands across his face. And then, he asked, "How'd you sleep?"

Nick blinked, then tossed his head to the side, casually. "After a shot of Jack and some of my mom's pie, pretty well, actually."

"I slept like I did last night," said Greg. "I kept… waking up and for the life of me, I couldn't remember why. I felt like I was forgetting something important, or that there was something I had to do, something I should have done, but didn't…"

Nick was quiet. He stared at the table for a moment. "You didn't do anything wrong, Greg."

"Didn't I?" Greg burst out. "That's what's been bugging me, Nick, because I played this scenario out in my head, about how we'd find you, and best and worst it was always, _always_ me that found you, and… I never considered this. I never considered that when I found you, you… wouldn't want to be found."

"Greg…" Nick began, sounding exasperated. "It wasn't that I didn't _want_—"

"I know," Greg interrupted. "I know, it's just… God, Nick, my whole life, everyone has been trying to protect me from something. If it wasn't my mother, then it was my teachers, even you guys." Nick opened his mouth to speak, but Greg cut him off. "No, it's true, I've seen the way you and Sara watch me out in the field, ever at the ready, in case something goes wrong. The way Warrick stands between me and the violent suspects. The way Catherine tilts her head and asks if I'm OK, and… I mean, I get it, I do. I'm the rookie CSI, even after two years, and you still feel like I need… supervision, or something."

"Not supervision," Nick broke in. "Greg, we _know_ you're a good CSI, that's not why we—"

"I know," Greg interrupted. "You do it because you don't want to see me get hurt. You want to… I don't know, protect me, _save_ me, even, from the big bad world, but Nick, these last few days? _I_ wasn't the one who needed protecting, _I_ wasn't the one who needed saving, _you_ were. And last year, it was the same thing, and I remember… I _remember_ that I just panicked. I froze up. I could barely say or do anything other than what I was told to do. I found… next to nothing to help find you, no evidence, I was just there, and when Warrick told me to dig, I dug, when Sara told me to look in one corner, I _looked_, but without them… Without them, Nick, I wouldn't have known _what_ to do." Greg's monologue slowed to a stop. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I just got in the way. If I hadn't been there, they would have found you faster."

"Greg, shut up," Nick finally said.

Greg looked up. "You're the one who wanted to talk about this!"

"I know," Nick said. "But I didn't realize it would involve you just ragging on yourself the whole time!"

"Well, I'm not finished," Greg said, defiantly. "Because that was last year. This year was supposed to be different. This year, I was gonna step up, and save your ass, no matter what. And then I get there, and I see you, and… You don't need rescuing. You didn't need _me_. And!" Greg added, noticing Nick rolling his eyes. "And! That's exactly my point. _That's_ what bugged me. I mean, I was glad you were OK, but a part of me, a part of me was a little disappointed that you _weren't not_ OK. And _that_ is what's wrong with me. I am the most conceited person on the planet!" He leaned back in his seat and gestured at Nick with both hands. "OK, there. I've said it. Have at it."

Nick placed his palms together, his thumbs beneath his chin, his fingers to his nose. "I don't really know what you want me to say…"

Greg gave a half-hearted shrug. "Anything, really. Say anything. Call me stupid, tell me I'm not conceited, tell me that my reaction is totally normal and understandable…"

Nick frowned. "I don't think you're… _entirely_ conceited, Greg."

"Oh, great, not entirely," Greg mumbled, folding his arms and pouting.

"But…" Nick went on, his brow still furrowed. "Greg, this isn't about you."

Greg sighed, as if he expected that. "I know. I know, it's about you. _Should_ be about you, anyway, but here I am, somehow making it about me. Right? I know, it's about _you_."

"No, it… it isn't…" Nick said slowly. "It's about her."

Greg grew cold. "About who?" He knew perfectly well what the answer was.

Nick's eyes were far away. "Alexa."

"Why?" Greg asked, like a child jealous of the new baby. "Why does it have to be about her? How exactly is she the victim in all this again, Nick? Because frankly, I still fail to see it."

"How is she the victim?" Nick gasped. "Have you seen how deeply scarred that poor girl is? By her own _father_?"

"Have you seen how scarred _you_ are?" Greg retorted, gesturing at the wound on Nick's face. "My God… Nick, look what she did to you… And not just the physical stuff… You haven't been _right_ since you've been back, and I've been so caught up in myself and my own guilty conscience, I haven't really…" Greg shivered, involuntarily and shook his head.

"Greg, you saw her in that interrogation room," Nick went on. "I saw the look in your eyes when I came out of there, after I spoke to her. You saw it too, how damaged she is. That's why you didn't give me crap about caring about her for the rest of the night."

"I get that she's fucked up," Greg said. "I even get why you might feel sorry for her. But Nick, you feel _more_ than just _sorry_ for her, and that's what scares me. And _she_ did that to you… Maybe you're not so OK after all."

"I don't think that this is something I can ever really explain to you, Greg…" Nick said quietly. He turned and made to leave the booth. Greg's hand shot out across the table like a bullet and he latched onto Nick's arm. The older man stopped and looked at him.

"You're not OK," Greg said, quietly. "I see that now. Nick, talk to me. Let me—"

"No," Nick interjected. "Because you know what this is? This is you, looking for an opportunity to play the hero. It's still not about _you_, Greg."

Greg withdrew his hand, wounded by these words. His eyes slowly softened and glistened in the harsh florescent light of the diner. For once, being the hero was the farthest thing from his mind. "Nick… I just…"

They were interrupted by a ringing phone. Nick waited, watching Greg a moment to see if his friend would finish his thought. He didn't. Nick reached into this pocket.

"Nick Stokes."

Greg looked on as Nick's brow furrowed. There was a long pause as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. Then, "You're talking a mile a minute there, Wendy. Take a deep breath and slow down."

Greg, his curiosity piqued, leaned his arms on the table and tried to hear what Wendy was saying over the phone. He couldn't quite make her words out, but the way Nick blanched told him that she wasn't saying anything good.

"Don't tell them anything," Nick ordered. "At least, not yet. I'll be right there, I'll talk to them about it. Thanks." He hung up and looked at Greg with a dazed expression.

"Nick, talk to me," Greg pleaded, on the precipice of desperation.

Nick's mouth was partially open. He closed it, blinked, and looked up at Greg. "I gotta go," he said, and before Greg could say anything else, he was out of there like a bullet.

* * *

Wendy marched down the hall to her lab, ready to face a brand new day. But she slowed to a stop as she saw the last two people in the world she wanted to see, hovering and talking to each other quietly. Warrick and Sara looked like they were waiting to ambush her.

She panicked. Wendy immediately did an about face and pulled out her phone as she did so. She dialed Nick's number, praying that he would answer, and not one of his parents. It rang a few times. "C'mon, c'mon…" she pleaded as she dodged Hodges' confused stare as he passed.

"Nick Stokes."

"Oh, thank God, Nick!" Wendy exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the hall. She turned her head left, then right, and saw the ladies room. She ducked inside. "Look, uh, I tried to call yesterday, but you were asleep, and then I was going to call later today, but I show up and Sara and Warrick are already at my lab, waiting, and I know they're going to ask about the results, and I can't lie to them and say I don't have them, because I do."

"You're talking a mile a minute there, Wendy. Take a deep breath and slow down."

"The evidence, Nick," Wendy explained, frantic. "The evidence at your crime scene, where they found you. There was blood, and other things, namely, well, semen. Because, you know, Warrick said we had to make sure that there were only four victims, right, and that there weren't any others! So we found three donors. Lincoln Meyer, James Sherman, and, well… well, _you_, Nick. You know, with the… blood and semen. I just wanted you to know. I have to tell them. I can't _not_ tell them. But Nick… I mean, what do you want me to say?"

There was a pause. He told her not to say anything. He told her he was coming, and he hung up. Wendy took a deep breath and leaned against the bathroom door. Again, her mind searched for an explanation. She ran through discussions she'd had with her friends about men raped by women. She remembered her ex-boyfriend Scott scoffing and saying that a woman physically _couldn't_ have sex with a man unless _he_ also wanted it. Had Nick, on some level, _wanted_ it?

Wendy shuddered and remembered her prosecutor friend, Jamie. Jamie had defiantly said that no matter what Wendy's then-boyfriend thought he knew, that it _was_ physically possible for a woman to rape a man, provided that she was strong enough to overpower him, keep him restrained, and physically stimulate his—

Wendy didn't allow her thoughts to go any further. In the past, these conversations had been purely hypothetical. Wendy had been able to discuss it in clinical terms, and it had, at the time, all been quite a fascinating debate. Inevitably, Jamie claimed that the only reason Scott denied it was possible was because he was afraid that it actually was, and he couldn't face it. Wendy later learned that Scott had a problem with women who asserted themselves. They'd soon parted ways, and Jamie's opinion held more weight than Scott's.

Wendy peeked out of the bathroom and glanced down each hall before stepping outside. She wasn't sure how long she could avoid going to her lab. She'd already signed in with Judy, so they'd know she was there, lurking somewhere.

"Oh, uh, person!" someone called, and Wendy looked left to see that visiting detective striding up to her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

Riley Adams shook a finger at her. "You, you're the DNA tech, right? Sara and Warrick are looking for you."

"No, you have me confused with Wendy. She's the DNA tech."

"Oh…" Riley said. "Well, then… could you pass that message on when you see her?"

"Sure," Wendy chirped.

Riley's phone began to ring. She took it out, looked at it, then put it away. "Great. It's pretty important. I'm _this close_ to slapping a rape charge on that bitch."

"Oh?" Wendy intoned, trying to sound casually interested. "How do you know it's rape?"

"When there's blood _and_ semen, it often is," Riley replied, as if it were obvious. "Not to mention the fact that these men were held captive against their will." Riley took a deep, shuddering breath and clenched her fists. She took a second to collect herself. "Lincoln Meyer was a dear friend of mine. To think of him… _humiliated_ like that? No. That woman is going down."

Her phone continued to ring. Wendy pointed at it. "You going to get that?"

Riley closed her eyes and quickly shook her head. "It's not important." But even so, she walked off, staring at her phone, seeming to have forgotten about Wendy.

The DNA tech sighed with relief as she leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, asking why she had decided that moving to Vegas had been a good idea. San Francisco had better beaches and softer crimes, or at least that's how it seemed in retrospect. She knew it wasn't true. Deep down, she knew that there was ugliness no matter where she went. She couldn't run from it anymore.

And then, there was a soft hand on her arm. Her eyes snapped open to see Nick Stokes standing in front of her. He appeared calm, but his eyes were black and unwavering, and Wendy recalled that old adage about still waters.

"Have you told them yet?"

She shook her head before articulating, "No."

Nick swallowed, and nodded. "The samples you tested," he began. "They weren't all mine, were they?"

This time, she just shook her head.

Nick raked a hand through his hair and looked back down the hall. "I don't know what to do, Wendy. They'll use this to hammer another nail into Alexa's coffin."

"I don't understand why that's such a bad thing," Wendy whispered. "I've been working these cases, Nick, and there were three separate DNA sets on that bed, not just yours. Blood, saliva, semen… She's done this before, Nick, to other guys, and she killed them."

Nick covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. "I'm tired of trying to explain this to everyone… You don't see what I do. No one asks why."

"I know why," Wendy said. "She was molested. And that's sad. But it doesn't give her a free pass for rape and murder."

At the words, a tinge of red crept into Nick's cheeks and he looked away, and Wendy finally definitively made up her mind on the possibility of a woman raping a man. She reached out to try and comfort him, but stopped, not knowing if it would be welcome or not. It was probably a good idea, because Nick took a step away from her.

"It wasn't rape." The words were steady, but quiet. He was staring at the floor, refusing to look her in the eyes when he said it. Wendy's heart rolled over in her chest.

But she gave him this one last shred of decency. "Maybe it wasn't. For you. But there were two other samples on that bed spread."

His hand flew to cover his eyes, and she heard him inhale a shuddering breath. It was the first sign of raw emotion she had seen from him, and she heard him choke out, "I know." He wiped his eyes, blinked a few times as he stared upwards. He shifted on the spot and folded his arms. He swallowed again, seeming to try to regain his composure. And then, he repeated, "I know that. That's why I don't know what to do. Whatever she… whatever she did, Wendy, she didn't know what she was doing. She can't be held responsible…"

"Let the courts decide that," Wendy said. "She has her own lawyer." She didn't want to give him advice on how to help the woman who had abducted him. But she could see how upset he was. "Look, you can… be a character witness at her trial. That… should influence things a little. But Nick, you've gotta let me do my _job_. And you've gotta let Warrick and Sara do _theirs_."

He continued to stare at the floor for a moment before he closed his eyes and bowed his heads. "You're right," he told her. "Go."

She knew he wasn't OK. She didn't want to just leave him there. She hesitated, watching him, but he didn't move. She took a step forward so they were shoulder to shoulder. She turned her head to see if he'd noticed, but he was as still as a statue. With a sigh, she headed down the hall to deliver her news to Warrick and Sara.

* * *

Nick was hunched over a table in the lounge, clutching his Styrofoam cup of coffee with both hands. The lab was eerily quiet, and he waited for the storm to hit. He stared into the muddy brown swill that was pooled between his palms and he thought of Greg at the diner. He wondered where his friend was at that moment, and whether or not he had arrived at work yet. He wondered what Greg would say, what the look on his face would be when he learned the truth.

Nick shivered, trying not to think about it. He loathed being the victim, and being thought of as someone to feel sorry for, someone to treat carefully. He recalled growing up in his house, the youngest of seven, always being talked down to, always having his hair ruffled, always treated like a child, even now. It was like he was nine years old all over again and everyone was trying to protect him.

_Protect…_ Nick looked up. Greg's words echoed in his head and there was a dull thud in his chest. _You want to… I don't know, protect me, save me, even, from the big bad world_. Nick realized that this was the curse of family. Everyone always scrambled to keep their family from harm. It was as much for their own preservation as for their family's sake. And Greg wasn't the only one with the hero complex. Nick needed to save someone, too. And then, another thought occurred to him. _Does that, in some twisted way, mean I think of _her_ as family?_

The thought and the coffee left a bitter taste in his mouth and an overwhelming urge to spit. But he swallowed instead. He knew he had been too hard on Greg. But he needed to stand his ground. He needed to put up a strong, aggressive front. So people would stop seeing him as someone easily injured. Someone… weak.

"Knock, knock." Catherine had said it, instead of actually doing the action, but it only multiplied the awkwardness that lingered in the air between them. She tried to smile.

"If you've come for the coffee, turn back now before it's too late," Nick said, getting up to pour his own cup down the drain.

"Oh, I know," Catherine sighed. "Greg's bogarting the Blue Hawaiian again." She paused, her wide blue eyes scanning him as if running some sort of emotional diagnostic. "How are you doing?"

"I'm OK," Nick blatantly lied. "It's… difficult. Readjusting. But also a bit déjà vu, too, you know, because I've done this before, felt this before…"

"Yes," Catherine said pointedly, her eyebrows arching. "You have, haven't you?"

Nick wasn't sure what she was implying. "And the pie," he continued, deciding he'd rather not ask her. "My mom made it for me last year, too, after I… came back…" It was a clumsy euphemism. It almost sounded like he had returned from vacation or something far more trivial than a near death experience. "I just hope I don't start associating it with trauma." He tried to smile. He tried with all his heart.

But Catherine actually was smiling, and her heart was in every curve of her lips. "Sweetie, I…" But she seemed to run out of words.

Nick tried to remember the last time Catherine had called him that and failed. And then, he noticed the elephant in the room. The topic Catherine was dancing around but couldn't bring herself to say.

So he did. "Right. Yes. OK." He forced a laugh. "Ah, so… you talked to Wendy?"

She released a breath she'd been holding and her shoulders fell, grateful that Nick had decided to broach the topic so she wouldn't have to. "Sara, actually."

"Sara, yeah…" Nick said casually, as if they were catching up about an old friend. "Right, that's what you meant… about how this has happened before." Catherine, of course, was the only one who could have made the connection. Not a single living soul on the planet knew his secret. "Catherine…" He frowned. "We don't have to talk about this, do we?"

She shook her head. "No, Nicky."

He nodded. "Good. Um. I told you what I did in confidence, you know that. And you've been real good, about, you know, not bringing it up again… until now. If you could just… keep doing that?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Perfect," Nick said, nodding slowly. And then, suddenly, uncontrollably, he blurted, "Catherine, I hate this." The worlds tumbled over each other, as if they couldn't wait to escape his lips.

"I hate it too, sweetie…" Catherine told him, with a warm smile. "But you know what I know?"

He felt his eyes begin to sting. He closed them and shook his head before tilting his chin to his chest. She stepped forward and nudged it back up again. "I know you'll beat this. Because like Grissom says, you've established a pattern, Nicky. A horrible, ugly, tragic pattern, but the evidence never lies. You are, by far, the strongest man I know."

And when he looked at her, he finally found that elusive, genuine smile.

* * *

Riley held the file so tightly to her chest, she was trembling. She had a seat next to the prosecutor, Meagan Kretz and across from Alexa King and the pair of lawyers her mother had hired. Alexa was staring meekly down at the table, refusing to look up at the detective at all.

"What's this all about?" the lawyer on her left demanded. He was tall and scrawny, with a mop of brown hair. He would look young, were it not for the beard. His colleague was broad shouldered and silver-haired, and very quiet. "Our client has already pleaded not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect. She has a diagnosed dissociative pathology, and she was not taking her medication at the times she committed these murders."

"We're amending the charges," Riley explained, venom dripping from her words. "Three counts of rape in the first degree."

There was no response from Alexa, but the bearded lawyer took deep offense to these charges. "On what grounds?" he demanded.

"Semen of the three victims were found at the scene," Meagan said, evenly.

"That by no means proves rape," the bearded lawyer argued. "For all you know, the victims may have consented."

"The victims were abducted and tied to a bed with rope burns on their limbs," Riley couldn't help but snap. "They were branded, beaten, and subsequently killed. You really think they _consented _to all of that?"

"Who are you to say that they didn't?" the bearded lawyer shot back. "You have no physical evidence that what took place on those beds was anything other than consensual sex. There was no penetration involved. At _most_, the charges should be dropped to sexual abuse."

"There _was_ penetration," Meagan argued. "Subsequent tests found Alexa King's saliva and vaginal fluids on three of the victims. Rape is defined by forcible penetration of any orifice – it doesn't necessarily identify the _penetrator_ as the rapist."

"I'm still not hearing anything that definitively establishes force." He saw Riley open her mouth to retort and quickly added, "And restraints prove nothing, detective. Several couples use them to heighten arousal. How do you suggest my client aroused these men enough to be able to rape them in the first place?"

"The penis responds to physical stimulation," Meagan said. "And studies show that erections can be maintained under severe stress. Just like women can experience arousal during rape, it doesn't prove consent."

"It doesn't _disprove_ it, either," the bearded lawyer said. "You'll have a hard time proving that to a judge, let alone a jury. Face it, Kretz, juries don't believe that men can be raped."

"Are you being serious right now?" Riley asked, her mouth agape. "These men were tortured and killed. They would _never_ consent to sex after being abducted by a _serial killer_."

For the first time in the conversation, she saw Alexa's shoulders flinch. She glared at the woman, daring her to look up, so she could look the crazy killer in the eyes. She began to grind her teeth, her stomach flipping as she imagined Lincoln tied to that bed, his eyes closed as he pretended to be anywhere but there. She slammed the table. "_Look_ at me, why don't you?"

"That's _enough,_ Detective," Meagan admonished.

Riley leaned back in her chair and shook her head. "Link would have _never_ let you _near_ him. He just felt _sorry_ for you and you took _advantage_ of that, you psycho bitch!"

"I _said_ that's _enough_, Detective," Meagan repeated.

Riley tried to calm down and bit her tongue.

Finally, the brawny, silver-haired man spoke up. "You say three counts of rape. There were four victims, one of which, as I understand it, survived. My colleague has asked for proof of non-consent. Surely, your living victim might clear up this matter. Is he your complaining witness?"

Meagan straightened in her chair. "Nick Stokes does not wish to comment on the matter."

The brawny lawyer's eyes widened. "Indeed? But surely, you have physical evidence to press charges without his testimony."

Meagan looked at Riley, who was still silently seething. "He has asked us not to pursue the matter in his case."

Alexa finally looked up at the two women across from her and blinked several times. A sinister smile curled across the brawny lawyer's features. "I see." He looked at his colleague. "Foster, I believe we're done here."

"I agree, Fairchild," said the bearded lawyer as he rose to his feet.

"Wait." Alexa's voice was small and scratchy. It was almost like the cry of a tiny, wounded bird. Her lawyers stopped.

"Miss King, we advise you to remain silent," Foster reminded her.

But Alexa was looking at Meagan. "Did Nick really say that?"

"Unfortunately," Meagan sighed.

Alexa looked at her lawyers, then back to Meagan. "And if I confessed. To rape. What would that do to my sentence?"

"Miss King—" Fairchild began to protest.

"Hush," Alexa replied, holding up a hand. "I'm not saying I am. I'm asking what would happen to me if I do."

"Life in prison," Meagan said.

"But I'll already have that," Alexa replied. "Four counts of murder will do that anyway."

"You'll be registered as a sex offender," Meagan continued, "for life."

"And what would that matter, if I spend my life in prison?" Alexa returned.

"That's _if_ you are convicted," Foster clarified. "Which you haven't been yet. Miss King, you were _non compos mentis_. If the jury understands that, you'll probably spend your life in a treatment facility, _not_ a prison."

Alexa looked at her lawyers, then back at Meagan. "I have done... unspeakable things. I see that now. I know those men weren't my father." She looked at Riley specifically, and for the first time the detective actually wished she hadn't. "I know they were good men."

Riley tried to maintain the eye contact, but inevitably had to tear her eyes away when she felt them begin to sting.

"Miss King, we _strongly_ advise that you keep silent at this point in time," Fairchild said. "You should discuss any serious legal decisions with us, before speaking to ADA Kretz here. What you say may mean the difference between getting the treatment you need and a life-long prison stay as a sex offender."

Alexa's eyes remained on Riley, and it was the detective's turn to avoid her gaze. "You were there, when they arrested me. I remember. You must know Nick. You must be his friend. That's why you're so angry with me, isn't it? I don't blame you. You have every right to hate me. So does he…" She paused. "Tell him… tell him I'm so sorry. For everything that I did to him. Tell him that it is really important to me that he knows that."

And then, Riley couldn't keep it at bay anymore. The clouds broke and the hail tumbled to the earth. "It's not just _Nick Stokes_," she spat. "You _destroyed_ one of the most decent human beings I have ever known. Lincoln Meyer tried to _help_ people like you, and what's really killing me is if he were alive, and this was St. Louis, he'd actually want to be your lawyer because he would see in you the _exact_ same things that Nick Stokes does, and honey, _that's_ what really pisses me off. You took advantage of something so altruistic, and you tortured and annihilated it. And because of you, society's outcasts have one less defender, and I have one less friend."

Alexa seemed to take this in stride, or perhaps she was just stunned. Her face was vacant, her eyes glazed over. "I'm sorry."

"Two of the emptiest words in the English language," Riley snarled. "I don't need your apologies, King. And neither does Nick."

Alexa's lawyers were pushing in their chairs. The older one, Fairchild, extended a hand to her. "Come on, Miss King. It's time we should be on our way."

But Alexa just sat there, staring at Riley, looking somewhat like a doe frozen in headlights, right before being splattered across some station wagon's fender. "I don't know what else to give you, then," she said. "Except to let you hate me. Both of you. Hate me, with all your heart, if that's what it takes to help you overcome what I did to you."

Riley said nothing. She had nothing left to say. She simply exhaled sharply through her nostrils. Her phone began to ring. She looked down at the name flashing across the display and denied the call. Her lip began to tremble, but she would not show weakness. Not here.

Eventually, Alexa pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. She looked at each of her lawyers. "I'm ready to go now."


	14. Folie À Deux

**_Author's Note:_** Yes, I skipped an update again, mostly because I was super busy and had to fly out last Friday. Also, I was stalling because I wasn't quite finished. But here's chapter fourteen. Review, tell me your thoughts, I may update sooner.

Chapter Fourteen: Folie À Deux

Since the charges were amended to include three counts of rape, Nick had become a hermit. After spending the first few nights in their son's house, Nick's parents had graciously conceded to move to a hotel upon his behest. The minute they were gone, he had bolted his doors and pulled all the curtains over his windows and hid from the world outside, including and especially his friends. All of them had tried to call. Greg and Catherine had each come to visit him. Catherine had been the first. She knocked once and called his name, sounding almost heartbroken that he wouldn't answer. She had left fairly soon, but only after slipping a note under the door.

_We miss you. We worry. At least let us know you're alive._

Though he didn't feel like talking to them, he could understand their concerns. They'd already lost him twice. And after all he'd been through, they were probably just making sure he wasn't hanging from his ceiling fan. So he had written, beneath her scrawl.

_I'm alive, and I'm OK. I just need my space_.

He had slipped it back under the door. He wasn't sure if she was waiting for it or not. But the next morning, he opened his door as much as the chain on it would allow and noted that it was gone. For a few days, he was left alone. And then, Greg came by.

He had knocked, though not insistently. He had even done it in that obnoxiously cliché pattern, rapping five times in rhythm and waiting for two knocks in response. When Nick didn't provide that response, it sounded as if Greg lightly tapped his own head to the door, probably in frustration. Nick listened silently as he heard something slide against the door and plop on the floor. Nick imagined Greg, his back leaning against the door, his head tilted up and his feet sprawled out in front of him.

"You want to be alone," he heard Greg say. "I get that. I tried to give you that. I'd hoped you'd had enough time, but I guess not. Your mandated leave is almost up, now. Just a few more days, and if you want to, Grissom says you can come back to work. He wants you to talk to a shrink first, though. Standard fare. You probably remember, from last year." He was quiet a minute. "I wanted you to know that I know I'm self-centered. And I know that I will probably never understand what you see in that… woman…" It sounded as if it took great effort for him to use that nonjudgmental word, but it had come out sounding biased anyway. Greg seemed to notice it. "Sorry. About… well, being me. Nick, I just want to do right by you, that's all. And I don't have to fix you, or save you… from anything. I just want you to be OK. And I don't mean physically OK, or 'I'm not suicidal, but I'm OK,' I mean _really_ OK. I mean healing. And I don't have to be the one that _makes_ you OK, but I want you to find someone or something that can help you out with that. Warrick, maybe, is probably better qualified than me. It's always been you and Warrick anyway…"

Nick waited. He heard movement. Greg's voice changed. It was muffled, somehow, as if his lips were right against the door. "When you're ready to rejoin the world of the living… We're here for you, man."

Nick listened to his footsteps as he walked away off of the porch.

* * *

It was Friday, and Nick's last day of official administrative leave. It was just a day after Greg had come by, so when there was another knock at his door, he assumed it was his friend again, checking in. Nick hesitated, before deciding to give Greg a break. He realized that this was hard on all of them, and maybe Greg deserved a little reassurance. Even if Greg could never really understand what Nick had gone through, it didn't mean he couldn't help at all. His last words had been a little harsh, and Nick felt he should apologize. He didn't _want_ to, but he knew that he should. He hated feeling so disconnected from Greg. He hated feeling isolated from his own life.

He walked to the door and opened it, but it wasn't Greg on his doorstep. He stopped, not sure what to do or say as he stared at the woman before him. He knew exactly who she was, but not why she was there.

Joanna King stood, her thin blonde hair framing her worn, bony features. She had Alexa's eyes. When Nick didn't speak, she asked, "May I come in?"

He blinked, then nodded, uprooting his feet as he stepped backwards and held the door open for her. She moved past him, and Nick felt the rush of air and a hint of perfume. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, watching her march further down his hall before turning around to face him.

"I'm probably the last person you want to talk to," she said.

With a pang of guilt, Nick thought of Greg. "Not the _last_ person…"

Joanna nodded, quietly. "Alexa wants you to know… that she's sorry. She was worried that you wouldn't get the message, which she gave to your detective friends. They scoffed at her… as if an apology meant nothing. To them, it probably did. But she needed you to hear it, as much for her sake as for yours. And… and I needed you to hear it, too. I can't imagine how you must view my daughter, and I want you to be able to move on from what she's done to you. But I wanted you to know that she wouldn't be the monster she's become if I hadn't stood there and let it happen."

Nick pursed his lips and folded his arms, looking down at the floor, then up again. Joanna waited for him to speak, but he had nothing to say. She raked a hand through her hair.

"I _also_ know that I shouldn't make excuses for her behavior. She committed a crime, and now she must deal with those consequences. But she was also the victim of something heinous and by allowing it to have happened, I am just as culpable. And yet, I'm not in chains. I haven't been read my rights. I haven't even been shunned or spat on by society, like my daughter has. Why is it, Mr. Stokes, that some criminals die in chains and others die in nursing homes?"

Again, Nick found himself unable to look directly at her. He rocked back on heels, his eyes darting anywhere but her make-up-caked face. Finally, he shook his head, wondering if she actually wanted an answer. "I ask myself that same question." It was the truth. It had been one he'd struggled with his whole career. And not only when he had watched men whom he had _known_ to be guilty walk on a technicality. But also when he had learned of the horrible things a victim had done to provoke his killer. Or the way he would see a witness speak to their child. Or even the way a widow would nonchalantly insult her husband and ask when the reading of the will would be.

Joanna smiled. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your voice."

Nick returned the sentiment, somewhat awkwardly. And then, he remembered his manners. "Can I get you a drink, or… something…?"

Her eyes doubled in size and she shook her head. "Oh, no… no, I don't want to bother you any more than I already have. I've said my piece. I just… needed you to understand, that Alexa wasn't always this way."

"I know," Nick said, honestly.

Joanna adjusted her grip on her purse and took a step forward, towards the door Nick stood before. She stopped when Nick continued.

"I've seen it in her. This… lost woman, who was torn apart and scattered about, trying to pick up all her pieces again. But she knows she'll never find them all. She'll never be whole. And that fact… haunts her."

Joanna stared at him with an unreadable expression. Nick felt a tinge of red creep into his cheeks. He was surprised at his own impromptu metaphor, but he had been thinking about Alexa, and why she'd done the things she'd done, for days now. In a very real way, _she_ haunted _him_. Nearly every waking moment, he found himself torn between nauseating revulsion and the deepest of empathies. His ambivalence only made moving on more difficult. It would be easier if he could just forgive her, or at the very least, hate her. Even a little.

Joanna moved towards him and put her hand on his upper arm. "I'm glad," she began quietly, "that someone sees what I see in her."

And for the first time, Nick realized that she was right. No one he knew understood his strange, conflicting emotions towards Alexa, could _ever_ understand, and yet Joanna was looking at him with a deep respect and relief in her forest green eyes, as if somehow grateful she had found someone in this vast universe who could see the same mirage, share the same delusion.

He wanted to connect with her, but he didn't know how. It seemed awkward to embrace her, and yet Nick still felt the urge. He wanted to wrap his arms tightly around her, breathe in her hair, the floury scent of foundation and the flowery aroma of perfume. He wanted to close his eyes and let her comfort him, like he had allowed his own mother to do on his first night back.

But the moment passed, and out of social custom, Nick restrained himself. Joanna pulled her hand away and moved past Nick to the door, which she opened, allowing a sliver of amber afternoon light to spill into the musty sienna hallway. She paused in between indoor and out and cast Nick one last, enigmatic look with those leafy green eyes before making her final exit and closing the door behind her.

Nick felt Joanna's absence like a feverish chill. He wrapped his arms around himself and swallowed, his looming house instantly feeling far too big for just one person. He was suddenly marveling at the fact that he had somehow managed to turn into a hermit for a week. He realized with a heavy brick in his stomach that he hated being alone. He stepped forward and put his hand on the door, as if trying to draw warmth from it.

Before he knew it, he was in his car, driving down a road. Life outside of his house felt so surreal, he almost wondered if he was dreaming. The orange sun was meandering slowly towards the horizon and the sky was beginning to bleed blue and violet. Nick tried to focus on his driving, but he felt as if his head was filled with cotton, and somehow disconnected from the rest of his body. The world was not as it should be.

Inevitably, he arrived at his destination and banged loudly on the door with the side of his fist three times. The door opened swiftly, and Greg stood there in a faded blue t-shirt and gray sweatpants holding a crisp twenty dollar bill. He froze when he saw Nick.

"Oh," he said, and nothing else. He folded the money and put it in the pocket of his sweats, all the while watching Nick with wide, uncertain eyes.

Nick slowly shook his head. "I'm not OK…" he confessed, and he could feel his voice crumble and hitch in his throat like a moth-eaten sweater snagged on a nail.

Greg just nodded. He made an awkward move forward, raising his arm up to reach out, but stopped, as if unsure where to go from there. Whatever idea he'd had concerning physical comfort, he abandoned it in preference of stepping backwards and opening the door to let Nick come inside. At first, Nick wasn't sure if he really wanted to, but he did. He stood in the middle of Greg's apartment and looked around. It was much smaller than his house, with fewer rooms for ghosts to haunt. He could smell the bitter aroma of coffee that filtered in from the kitchen, and something distinctively Greg hung in the air as well, like dead leaves and rain.

"Do you… want a beer?"

Nick turned to look at a timid Greg, his head cocked forward, his body tense as if ready to run at the slightest sign of trouble. He reminded Nick of a rabbit, trying to get something from a fox.

"Sure," Nick said, but what he really meant was, _I wish you wouldn't act so terrified of me._

Greg nodded and walked past Nick, disappearing into the kitchen. Nick wasn't sure if he was expected to follow, or wait in the living room for him. He wavered there a moment, but Greg soon returned with two uncapped bottles and handed one to Nick.

"Thanks…" He took a sip.

"You just looked like you needed one," Greg said with a shrug before taking a sip of his own. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "You… wanna talk about it?"

Nick's stomach clenched and he made a face before taking another sip of his beer and saying, "Not really."

"OK…" Greg said, shifting awkwardly. He waited a minute, before asking, "Um, then, why did you come here?"

Nick wasn't entirely sure what he had expected out of his spontaneous decision to come see Greg. "I just… didn't want to be alone anymore."

Greg seemed to relax and an old, familiar smile claimed his features. "Nick…" He held his breath, as if ready to say something else, but decided better of it. He closed his mouth, and his eyes and shook his head. He shrugged and offered his hands palm up to Nick, as if he had nothing to give him. "So, what do you want to do?"

Nick wanted to tell him that just being in Greg's presence helped Nick feel less isolated. He wanted to tell Greg that he wasn't a child that needed to be treated delicately. He wanted to tell Greg everything, but nothing seemed appropriate anymore. Everything was different.

He closed his eyes and held his breath. "I want to hate her. I see the way you look at her, listen to how you talk about her, and I wish I could feel that way about her, like you do. But I can't. I just… can't, and so I try _not_ to hate her and… I can't forgive her, either, Greg. Everything she's done, all the lives she's ruined… How can I forgive that? And yet, I feel like I know her, what she's been through… so how can I condemn it?"

Greg nodded, slowly. "I wanted to tell you that you were right. When you said that you couldn't explain it to me… at least not in a way I could ever understand. Like that, what you just said there, just makes my head hurt to think about it. You don't have to try and make me understand, Nick, but if you want to just talk _at_ me, I'm OK with that. I'll listen, and nod, and… provide words of wisdom where appropriate, but… I can't say I'll understand."

And then, Nick laughed, relief swelling through him. "Actually… that helps a lot."

Greg smiled. "Good. That's what I'm here for."

Nick raked a hand through his hair and sat on the arm of the couch. "I'm guessing you're up to speed with the charges against her."

Greg nodded. "Yeah."

Nick's eyes glazed over. He blinked, then refocused his attention on Greg. "You haven't said anything about it."

Greg clicked his tongue and shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders coming up to his ears. He knew exactly what Nick was talking about. "I didn't think it was something you'd want me to bring up. And also, I haven't seen you in a week."

Nick managed a weak smile. "Thanks."

"So… you wouldn't let the DA add a fourth count," Greg noted.

Nick nodded, staring at Greg's knees. "What good would it have done? She's already got a life sentence."

"OK." But he articulated it in a way that said he didn't want to accept that explanation, but he would.

Nick sighed. "And… I'd rather not be that guy. I don't want to make any landmark cases that law students reference about female rapists."

Greg flinched when he said the word. He paused, then said, "Wendy says you claim that it wasn't… rape…"

Nick nodded. "I'm not stupid, Greg. I was just… scared."

"Well…" Greg began slowly. "I was… worried, honestly, when she said that."

"Why?"  
"Because of your attitude," Greg explained. "Because of how thoroughly she brainwashed you. When Wendy told me that you'd said that, I thought… maybe it really wasn't. And if _that_ was true, then… then I didn't think I'd know who you were anymore."

Nick closed his eyes. "So you're saying that it would have been worse if it wasn't rape."

Greg was immediately on the defensive. "No, no, it's not like I thought rape was _better_, it's just—Nick, _nothing_ about this is any good _at all_. There is no 'better,' only a whole mess of 'worse.'"

Nick felt the lump rise into his throat. His gaze lowered from Greg's knees to his bare feet. "It was… humiliating. On so many levels I can't even go into now. And in that moment, while it was happening, and I could feel myself…" A look of disgust contorted his features. "_Responding_ to her? I have never hated anybody more in my life, but it wasn't _her_ that I was hating…"

The bitter, frustrated tears began to sting his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of Greg. _Why did I even _come_ here?_ Furious, he sniffed and swiped a hand at his eyes. He couldn't look up, and Greg's feet were planted on the floor.

"I could feel… a part of me… detach from myself. Dissociate. You know? So that a part of me could just leave myself behind to die, and the rest of me could escape. And then, all I kept thinking, was of this girl, split down the seams, and I knew, I _knew_, that what was happening to me had happened to her so many times, it had cracked her in two. I just… I don't want to turn into her…" He let out a low sigh. He still couldn't look up at Greg, terrified of the expression he might see on his face. And Greg didn't say or do anything to interrupt Nick's monologue. He just stood there.

"I thank God that you don't know what that's like…" _And I had let it happen again._ "And you think, you know, she's this tiny little thing. Half my size, but she ties a mean knot in a rope, I don't know, maybe she was a girl scout or something. And I tried—so hard—just to get her _off_ of me… But she didn't know. Or, she didn't understand, not consciously anyway, that she was hurting me. And the more I struggled, the more she genuinely believed we were… real. Jesus…" He cupped his hands over his nose and mouth. "And I know it's stupid, and maybe macho or sexist or whatever, but seriously, I mean _seriously_, I'm the _guy_ in this situation, and it just seemed so… impossible." He snorted, for a moment forgetting where he was. "At least last time, I was just a kid."

Silence settled over them like a muffling blanket. Nick could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and he remembered where he was, and what he had just said. He looked up, half panicked, to see Greg's expression crunched together as he tried to decipher Nick's words. And then, he came to analyzing the words Nick had least wanted him to hear.

"Last time?" They weren't shocked, or disgusted, or overly pitying, just quiet and slightly puzzled. Greg wasn't jumping to conclusions, he was trying to make sense of what Nick was telling him, trying to understand despite his earlier confession that he never really would.

Nick's mouth hung partially open. "Honestly, I didn't mean to say that last part out loud."

And then came the concern. It crept over Greg's face like nightfall and he stepped forward, trying to hold Nick's gaze as he bowed his head slightly. "You were…? Before?"

Nick sighed. He didn't need to discuss this. It was a part of his life that was very much over, and he didn't want to do this now. "I was nine. It's… the past. Part of who I am, I guess."

Anger flared briefly across Greg's face like a shooting star, and then his jaw was set, and the rage was gone. He turned his head a moment and chewed on his lip before bowing and slowly shaking it. And then, Greg did something unexpected. He snorted, almost scoffed. It was Nick's turn to look puzzled. Greg smiled when he saw it.

"It's just… damn, you must be the butt of some big karmic joke, huh?"

Nick had never really thought about it. And then, a smile slowly claimed his lips and he nodded at Greg. "It's just been a bad year."

Greg's smile grew sad, the worry lines still etched in his brow. Nick rarely saw those lines exposed so boldly as they were now, but there they were. Greg stepped forward and squeezed Nick's shoulder. "Earlier…" he began. "When you said you didn't want to be alone anymore. You may not feel it, or see it… but you're never _alone_, Nick, not really. There are so many people that went through hell and high water for you, and they're not just gonna give up on you now."

Nick threw awkwardness and respect for personal space out the window. He stood up and pulled Greg into a tight embrace, smacking him hard on the back and closing his eyes as his friend returned it. He didn't realize exactly how much he had needed this contact with another human being, and he kept holding on, probably longer than was appropriate, but if Greg minded, he didn't say anything. Nick was brought back to reality with a knock at the door.

Awareness of personal space flooded back to him and he broke away from Greg, slightly self-conscious. Greg chuckled as he looked at his friend.

"Hang on," he said, the laughter evident in his voice as he went to answer the door. Nick wondered who might be visiting Greg at this hour, and he really hoped it wasn't someone he knew. But all worries evaporated when Greg opened the door to a freckled teenager in a blue baseball cap.

"One Carnivore Carnival for Greg Sanders?"

"Yup."

"22.50."

"You said 19.99 on the phone."

"Delivery charge, bro."

Nick heard Greg almost growl. "Don't expect a tip," he muttered, handing the kid some cash and closing the door. He turned around, now holding what appeared to be an extra-large pizza. "That reminds me," he called over to Nick. "You owe me twenty bucks."

Nick gaped at him. "I do _not_."

"Do so," Greg replied, walking over to the dining table and setting the pizza down. "I gave you twenty dollars for my pizza and you never got to the shop."

"I was kinda distracted," Nick reminded him.

Greg cracked open the box and savored the scent of the pizza. "No excuse. You can pay me later. I understand you have other things going on."

"OK, I do _not_ owe you twenty dollars," Nick said, striding purposefully over to the table. "You gave me ten, Brass chipped in five, and I gave five, so if I owed you _anything_, it would be ten dollars. But since _you_ already owed _me_ twenty dollars in the first place, balancing it all out, you _still_ owe me ten dollars."

Greg waved this logic away. "Bah, forget about it. Keep the twenty. I'm a nice guy."

"You still owe _me_ ten!" Nick cried, incredulously.

Greg took a bite of the pizza and raised his eyebrows twice before closing his eyes. "Mm… _Love_ DelFino's."

Nick rolled his eyes. "At least you haven't lost your appetite."

Greg held up a finger, finished chewing, then swallowed. He put the slice of pizza down. "OK, so, I recently went to a nutritionist, she says I am in _awesome_ shape, and to keep doing what I am doing, which is eat pizza. So your fat jokes? Not gonna bother me anymore." He picked up his pizza and looked at it, thoughtfully. And then, the tone shifted. "I was a little worried I wouldn't be able to enjoy DelFino's ever again." He looked up at Nick. "I'm… sorry I made you go get my pizza."

Nick shook his head. "By that time, Alexa already had me targeted. I would have had to leave the lab sometime, and she would have found me."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, but I learned my lesson." He gestured at the door. "D'you see how I got them to deliver this time? Even paid the extra charges and everything."

Nick laughed, and it felt good. "Yeah. I noticed."


	15. The Way Back Home

**_Author's Note:_** Next week will be the last chapter, but there's also an epilogue, so there's that to look forward to. I was a little reticent to include the Riley scene in this story, or to wait and include it in the spin-off... but decided I needed to have one last Greg and Riley scene in THIS story, first. Anyways. Yeah, it's a bit much. But whatever. Thanks for your reviews, guys, always appreciated!

Chapter Fifteen: The Way Back Home

Riley knocked tentatively on Brass's office door. He looked up and beckoned her to enter with a broad hand gesture before looking back down at his paperwork.

"Crazy week, huh?" she offered, meekly.

"Mm…" Brass returned, taking his pen to paper and signing his name before moving to the next page.

"For what it's worth…" Riley began slowly, "I enjoyed working with your team. You were right. They are all very good at their jobs."

Brass put his pen down and looked up. "Thank you. But why the sudden urge to compliment my team?"

"I'm heading out," Riley explained. "Back to St. Louis. For now, anyway."

Brass raised a single eyebrow. "For now?"

Riley chewed on her lip. "Well, if there are any job openings here… you'll let me know, right?"

"I'll keep you in mind…" Brass muttered. "But I don't follow… Greg told me that you were really in your element in St. Louis. Your team moved like a well-oiled machine and you were their mechanic."

Slowly, Riley nodded. "Do you think it's possible for a team to be _too_ close to each other?"

Brass considered this a moment. "I've never had that experience."

Riley pulled out a chair and had a seat. "Like, let's look at your guys. You were all level-headed enough to work the case cohesively and find Nick. Nobody went… crazy, or anything."

Brass laughed, slowly. "You weren't at the lab for most of it. Poor Mandy still has bruises on her wrists when Warrick became a little too emotional. We were all falling apart, Riley, but… We worked together to find him _because_ we cared so much."

And Riley took a moment to consider this. "Maybe. I don't know. I like my team, I do. But I just don't…" She trailed off, and as if on cue, her phone began to ring. She winced, as if someone had slapped her, before slowly pulling it out.

"Avoiding someone?" Brass asked.

She blinked at the phone. "Not this someone," she said and held the phone to her ear. "Adams." There was a pause. "Yes, I'm in a friend's office… Because I'm working, Ash, now what's wrong?" She frowned. "Yeah, I'll be back tonight… Asher, spit it out." Silence swallowed everything. Brass couldn't even hear a voice on the end of the line as Riley stood there, wordlessly. She pursed her lips. She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them. "Yes, I'm still here… Yeah… Uh huh… Soon… _Yes_, Ash, soon, I promise… Bye." In a daze, she took her phone and closed it.

Brass's eyebrows were raised in intrigue. Riley blinked and came back to herself. She noticed Brass staring at her and glared. Her single word was terse and snarling. "What?"

"Hey, it's not eavesdropping if you have the conversation in the middle of my office," said Brass. "Something wrong?"

She sighed and pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. She took a deep breath and held it a moment. "I…" She closed her eyes tightly again, and kept them closed before opening them wide and taking a deep breath. She shook her head to clear it. "Wow. I'm tired." She tried to smile, but it was sad. "I have to… go home. Or… somewhere." She turned to leave, then paused at the door, looking over her shoulder. She didn't fully look at him over her shoulder, more off to the side. "Do you think, maybe… I could be a good CSI?"

"Huh," Brass said, loudly, leaning back in his chair. "You? A CSI?"

She laughed and hung her head. "Yeah, I know. Never really thought about it myself, either. But, you know, when we were in that cab, it wasn't… connections, or lists of names, or interviews, it was the fact that Greg knew Nick's car. And it was your team, not my profile, who figured out it was a woman. The blood and semen that spoke to the rapes… Really, you guys made all the breaks. The objects said more about the crime than the people did. Greg figured it out. Not me. I'm… not used to that." She turned to fully face him, her chin up, her brave face on. "But I'd like to learn. How they do it. It would make me a better… detective, a better cop, a better… person, maybe, even."

Brass leaned forward in his desk and clasped his hands on top of his paperwork. "I think you'd make a fine CSI, Detective Adams."

She gave him a small shrug and nodded her appreciation. But she didn't say a word as she turned around and left.

* * *

"_Get_ your feet off my coffee table," Greg's reprimanding whine buzzed in Nick's ears.

The latter offered his friend a smirk and a pair of cocked eyebrows. "Oh, now the shoe's on the other foot."

"No," Greg said, shoving Nick's legs towards the left, but they didn't fall off. "The _shoes_ are on my coffee table."

"Every Super Bowl," Nick began, "_every_ year, you slam your coasterless beer on _my_ wood end table and kick the Doritos off _my_ coffee table onto _my_ carpet. I have the water marks and a permanent orange stain to prove it."

"That's your fault for hosting a Super Bowl party every year," Greg returned. "Of course things get messy. And you have no evidence that links me to either the watermarks or the orange stain. Nothing that's not hearsay, anyway." He pushed at Nick's legs again. "Seriously, dude, at least I don't wear _shoes_ when I put my feet on your coffee table."

Despite being amused at Greg's efforts to move Nick's legs, the Texan decided it would be polite if he just took his feet down. "It's not my fault for hosting a party, it's my fault for inviting you."

"So, you admit, it's your fault," Greg said, as he rested his own feet on his coffee table.

Nick gaped at his hypocrisy as Greg reached for the popcorn between them.

Greg glanced at Nick's face, then his feet, then popped a puff of popcorn into his mouth. "I'm allowed to. It's my house. Plus, look," he gestured at his socks. "No shoes!"

But Nick just smiled. And he was grateful for this small sense of normalcy that seemed to have grown between them ever since they had split the last slice of pizza. Whatever distance that had inserted itself between them after Nick's abduction seemed to have vanished, and Greg wasn't afraid to relax around him anymore. The eggshells Greg had been walking on were all smashed to smithereens and he proudly ground them into the floor.

As Nick considered their long and predictable friendship, Greg had taken to channel surfing before landing on _The Daily Show_ and leaning back in his couch. Nick turned his attention to the TV as silence settled in with them, like a third best friend. Every once in a while, Greg would emit a loud, curt guffaw at one of the jokes, but Nick, ever more subtle, would just give quiet, amused smiles.

It was the first moment, since what happened, that Nick really felt like things could get better. Like he might, someday, find his way back to normal, or at least what had passed for normal before. He thought about Walter and Kelly Gordon, mostly about Kelly, and how surreal life had seemed after she killed herself. Even just before Alexa had stolen him away from everything, he still wasn't used to life above ground. He found it strange that it took another traumatic event to snap him out of his waking dead feeling.

Nick looked over at Greg, who didn't seem to notice. He was holding his Corona close to his lips, his breath passing over the mouth of the bottle, before he took another sip and set it down again. He smiled at another joke and nodded his head in approval. Nick knew that Alexa's kidnapping hadn't solved anything. It had only made things worse. The only difference between what happened after Gordon and what happened after Alexa was that Nick had caved in and talked to someone about it. As he watched Greg now, he wondered why he had been so averse to talking to him before. He'd taken everything better than Nick had ever expected. And now that the secrets were all exposed, they held no power over him.

Trauma does not cure trauma. Nick knew that. If you're slapped once, being slapped on the other cheek doesn't neutralize the pain. Nick felt better, normal, for one reason, and one reason only, and that reason sat three feet away from him on the other end of the couch, drinking Corona and laughing at Jon Stewart.

Nick allowed his own attention to return to Greg's TV. Just as he was reaching for the popcorn, there was a knock at Greg's door. The two men exchanged confused looks.

"We already ordered pizza, right?" Greg asked.

"Go answer it," Nick said.

With a heavy sigh, as if getting up to answer his door was not only a huge inconvenience but also a physical strain, Greg dragged his feet and his beer over to the door. "I hope it's not Grissom or one of his emissaries dragging me into work tonight."

Mildly curious why Grissom would come in person to make Greg work instead of calling on the phone, Nick kept his eyes on Greg at the door while his head faced the TV. He couldn't see who was there, as Greg was blocking his view.

"Oh." Greg sounded slightly surprised. "Um… Hey. You, uh, wanna come in, or… something?" Greg suddenly tensed. Nick strained his ears. He could hear something in the hall, but it was hard to make out over the TV. He wondered if turning the volume down would be too conspicuous.

"Whoa…" Greg said. "Was it something I said?" There was a pause. He stepped forward, into the doorway and hunched his shoulders, seeming concerned. "Jesus, are you OK?"

Nick didn't hear a reply. He just watched Greg step out into the hall without a word to Nick and close the door behind him.

* * *

She had caught him off guard. The last person Greg had expected to see when he opened that door had been Riley Adams, and yet, there she was. "Oh. Um… Hey. You, uh, wanna come in, or… something?"

She looked as pale as the day Greg had first met her at Lincoln Meyer's crime scene, and just like that night, her eyes were dry. Even so, Greg could tell that something must be wrong. Her somber expression didn't help.

She opened her mouth to respond to his question, and the way her head began to move left, he anticipated that she would decline his offer. But before she could speak, the strangest sound escaped her mouth instead. It was something halfway between a sob and a whimper. She seemed as surprised by it as he was, as her fingers flew to cover her lips, as if horrified that everything would fall apart if she didn't. But her emotions seeped out through the holes in her seams, the ones that had been slowly fraying ever since she'd left St. Louis. Her shoulders jumped up to her ears and she lurched forward, as if about to throw up. And then, her eyes shut suddenly and tightly, the wrinkles of them sprawling out towards her temples. Greg heard another muffled sob, and saw the tears begin to leak out of the corners of her tightly closed eyes. How this was possible, when merely seconds ago they had been as dry as the Nevada desert, Greg had no idea.

"Whoa…" Greg muttered, his eyes the size of quarters as he watched her deteriorate. "Was it something I said?"

She tossed her head back and almost laughed, or maybe it was another sob, Greg couldn't quite tell. She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out. She was quaking as she wrapped her arms around herself, taking a few more deep breaths. Finally, she was composed enough to speak. "I can't go home, Greg… I can't." Her eyes closed again and her breaths came in staccato spurts.

He reached out across the door frame, but didn't touch her. "Jesus, are you OK?" He watched as she crumbled, and he stepped out in the hall, closing the door behind him. He put his hands on her shoulders and tilted his head forward, trying to catch her eye, but they were closed so tightly, he didn't think they'd ever open again.

Rather than explain, she responded to his touch by falling into him, her arms slipping around his torso as she clutched his shirt, her knees buckling. He caught her, but not before she pulled him forward enough to force him to come down with her. He kneeled and held her as she continued in her emotional breakdown for what felt like a year. Greg was alarmed that the sound of her sobbing jarred something in him akin to the feeling he got when he heard the piercingly shrill scream of wheels skidding on concrete. He felt as if something just beneath his solar plexus was tuning to the frequency of her sobs and as it vibrated like a tuning fork, it began to make him nauseous.

But after a moment, her sobs subsided. Her grip on him loosened, and then, she pulled away from him entirely, looking determinedly off to the right. Her lips were pursed and she wiped her eyes the back of her left hand. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she still quivered as if she were cold, but she sat silent.

Greg waited for her to say something, to explain her breakdown, but she just sat and stared. She folded her arms in front of her chest resolutely. Greg waited a whole minute. When it became apparent that she would not offer any unsolicited information, he decided to ask.

"So what just happened?"

She still refused to look at him. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Greg's eyebrows knit together, almost offended. "Don't apologize. You don't have to apologize. An explanation would be nice, though."

"I used to… talk to Link, about these things…" Riley whispered, sounding far away. "He's gone…" Another sob, late to the party, tumbled out of her mouth and scurried away. She closed her eyes, took a moment, and sighed. "He's gone, and now… so is she."

Greg wasn't entirely sure what Riley was trying to tell him. "Who's gone?"

She didn't respond.

"Riley?"

"Noemi," she replied, quickly. "My partner. Noemi."

"Yeah…" Greg said, slowly. "I remember. Where did she go?"

"Noemi…" Riley repeated. "Noemi's… dead. Noemi is dead. And I'm in Las Vegas."

Greg wasn't sure how to respond. "I don't understand what your location has to do with it…"

"I don't…" Riley began, loudly, turning her head to face Greg again, but her eyes remained elsewhere, in this case, the ceiling. "I don't like… feeling this way. It doesn't work for me. I can do… sensible, calm, carefree, comic relief, indignant—that's my favorite, indignation…" She lowered her eyes to stare into Greg's. "I'm in control, with those. They allow me some form of outlet while still giving me the power in… any situation. But this… this…" Her eyes drifted away again, following her voice over the horizon of their conversation.

Greg found her words. "Grief. You're grieving."

She turned on him in an instant, her eyes flashing like headlights on a rainy night. "No. _No_. No, I can't… I can't _think_ about them… Lincoln and Noemi… Link… Noems… _No._ I won't." She began to cry again and sobbed, "I _won't_."

"Riley," Greg began, his voice a near whisper, as if he were speaking to a child. "How did Noemi die?"

Riley shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Then why did you come here?"

This question seemed to bring her back to the moment. She stopped shaking and looked at him. "Ash says I need to go home immediately."

"So go," Greg urged.

"I have a flight out tomorrow morning."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't _want_ to go."

Greg's tongue shot out and licked his lips. "Why not?"

Riley sighed. "My team. They're… kind of like Noemi. In fact, she colored everyone's mood. If she was happy, they were happy. If she wasn't, well, she made sure to make the rest of us as miserable as her. I could tell how our day would go by what mood Noemi was in when I brought her coffee in the morning. It was like, surfing on an unpredictable sea of productivity and failure."

"That's not what I saw when I was there," Greg said.

"You saw us at our best," Riley told him. "Noemi was happy I was back."

"I hate to sound… callous…" Greg paused, thinking about his words. "But, if Noemi affected your team's mood, and she's not there anymore, doesn't that, sort of, fix that?"

"I don't know…" Riley whispered. "I'm kinda scared to find out."

"That's why you don't want to go back."

"Greg…" Riley began, slowly. "If Noemi's mood was our mood, if her successes and failures were all our successes and failures, then if she's dead… aren't we?"

"You look pretty healthy to me." He shrugged. "I mean, Riley… Your world did not revolve around Noemi."

"No…" Riley said, pensively. "Her world revolved around mine."

"I don't follow…" Greg said.

Riley smiled and shook her head. "Killed herself. That's how she died." Riley brought her finger across her throat and made a sound in the back of her throat. "Just like that, killed herself, and with her, took my whole team, my whole career…"

Greg was surprised. "Why? I mean… why would she do that? She seemed happy, stable when I was there."

"She does that," Riley said. "Or, did that. She was very good at it. Pretending to be normal. She wasn't." Riley took a deep breath and rose to her feet, dusting off her knees. "Well… I have to pack. So…"

Greg wasn't sure what to do. He followed her lead and rose to a standing position. "You don't have to go, if you don't want to."

"I have to pick up the pieces, don't I?" Riley asked. "Step up. Be a leader." She extended a hand, formally. "It was nice working with you, Greg Sanders. Hopefully, we can do it again."

All too aware of the shift to the formal acquaintance atmosphere, Greg humored her, letting her have the distance she had shoved between them, even though he secretly wanted to embrace her and tell her that it was OK to grieve. He took her hand. "I would like that."

She gave him a curt nod, then turned around and walked down the hall. Greg watched her go, and, despite his words, thought that this would be the last time he would ever see Riley Adams.

He opened the door to his apartment and stepped inside, feeling emotionally drained. He had just seen two people open up and break down in front of him within the span of six hours, and it was far more exhausting than he'd ever considered. But as he looked at Nick, who sat on Greg's couch pretending not to notice that Greg had come back inside, he knew that at least one of those people would be all right, in the end. He was less certain about the other.

Greg looked at the program Nick was watching. "Oh, are we into Colbert now?"

"Yeah, he's talking about sheep in—"

"You're not even going to ask who was at the door," Greg interrupted.

Nick blinked, then looked at Greg with a blank expression. "I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

Greg's lips smirked. "You were listening at the door, weren't you?"

Nick looked offended. "Me? Why would I do that?"

"Riley," Greg told him. "It was Riley."

Nick's expression softened. "I know."

Greg sighed as he walked over to the couch and sat down, the bowl of popcorn between the two of them. "People. Life. So weird and confusing and unpredictable…"

"Yeah…" Nick agreed. "But I mean… c'mon. Really. Would you have it any other way?"

Greg looked at him out of the corner of his eye. And grinned.


	16. Fairy Tales

**_Author's Note:_** Late update, I know. Wasn't sure people were still keeping up. Drop me a line, folks, say hey sometime! Anyways, here's the final chapter. I know it won't feel like it's finished by the end, but that's what the epilogue is for. ;o)

Chapter Sixteen: Fairy Tales

"They've managed to get rid of me, returned me to the grave.  
Your brainwaves are more regular, the chemistry more pure,  
The headaches and the nausea will pass, and you'll endure.  
The memories will wane, the aftershocks remain.  
You wonder which is worse, the symptom or the cure.  
They've managed to get rid of me. I'm gone without a trace,  
But sear the soul and leave a scar no treatment can erase.  
They've cut away the cancer but forgot to fill the hole.  
Your life goes back to normal now, or so they all believe.  
Your heart is in your chest again, not hanging from your sleeve.  
They've driven out the demons and they've earned you this reprieve…"

- "Aftershocks" from _Next to Normal_

* * *

Nick shrugged a jacket onto his shoulders and opened the door to his house only to find Sara Sidle standing there, her fist poised as if about to knock. She gave an awkward shrug and a smile.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

"We've, uh… we've missed you," she told him, sounding a bit timid.

He warmed just to look at her. "I've been back working with you for three weeks now."

"Physically, maybe," Sara agreed. "But you can't fool me, Nick. That head of yours is far away, and it has been for a long time."

Nick gave a curt, amused grunt. "Come to check on my head, have you?"

But she shook her head. "Wanted to make sure you were still here is all."

Nick felt a pang, deep in his gut, and the urge to embrace her almost overwhelmed him, but he restrained himself. He was getting quite good at that. Instead, he said, "You couldn't have called?"

"It was on my way home," Sara replied.

"You live nowhere near here," Nick told her.

She shrugged. "I'm staying at a friend's."

Something about the shine in her eye told him there was more to it than that. Nick assumed she had gone out of her way to stop by, so he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. "I was just on my way out, actually."

"I noticed," Sara commented, nodding at his jacket. "Where are you headed?"

He stepped out onto his porch and closed his door. "Well…" he began, choosing his words carefully. "I wanted to check on… some things."

"Like?" Sara prompted.

Nick pursed his lips. "Look, there's something I gotta do. But afterwards, when I'm done, why don't we get dinner or something, and if you want to talk, we can talk."

Shades of gray bled into the irises of Sara's eyes. "Can I go with you? To check on these things?"

Nick squirmed. "You wouldn't want to—"

"Because in all honesty, I'm kind of curious about how she's doing myself." She offered him a tiny smile. A peace offering for a war Nick didn't remember fighting.

Nick just shook his head, looking at her. "How'd you know?"

"I have a sixth sense about these things," she admitted. "And take it from me, that place is not somewhere you want to go alone. You'll appreciate my company."

Nick had to give a small, sad laugh. "I think I will."

The drive up there didn't take long at all, especially with Sara in the car. She was intuitive enough to know what topics to avoid discussing, and also when quiet was better than chattering. Nick was grateful that she didn't offer any condolences or ask if he was OK. She seemed content with not knowing. Or perhaps, Nick mused, she didn't ask because she already knew.

Sara was noticeably jittery when they entered the lobby. For a moment, Nick considered inquiring about this, but quickly remembered that she had the decency not to ask him that question, so he kept quiet. She tapped her fingers against the desk as Nick spoke with the receptionist, who got on the phone and called one of the guards.

Nick looked up at Sara. "You coming?"

Her head moved from side to side in short bursts as she bounced up and down on her feet. "I'd rather just wait for you."

Again, Nick debated commenting on Sara's sudden idiosyncratic behavior. She was the one who had volunteered to drive all the way out here with him, confessing curiosity after Alexa's state. And now, she didn't want to go in with him. Nick wondered if she'd even really wanted to come in the first place.

He asked one more time as the guard took a place beside him. "You sure?"

"I don't really want to be in the same room as her," Sara finally admitted.

"You'll be speaking with her in the game room," the guard explained to Nick. He looked at Sara. "This is a teaching hospital. We have an observation room there, with a one-way mirror, if you would like to watch."

Sara blinked, then looked from Nick to the guard. Nick raised both his eyebrows at her, questioningly.

She seemed to have run out of excuses, so she nodded, short of breath. "All right. Sure."

Alexa was the only person in the room when Nick entered. She looked extraordinarily different than she had on the day Nick had last seen her. She was sitting at a chess board, staring at the configuration through a pair of rectangular glasses, rimmed with black plastic. Her hair fell in yellow sheets on her shoulders and down her back. She moved a piece. Nick took a step forward.

"Alexa?"

She didn't look up from her chessboard. "Hello, Nick." Her voice was even and detached.

Nick nodded, slowly. "At least you recognize me."

"Thirty-one days," she said.

Nick hesitated. "I'm sorry?"

"Since the night I took you," she said, moving one of her pawns. "Thirty-one days. Feels like years."

Nick gestured at the seat across from her. "Mind if I sit down?"

Alexa frowned, then experimentally moved one of the white pawns on Nick's side of the table. She examined the board again. "Do what you want," she said.

There was something very disconcerting about her demeanor. She was definitely saner, calmer, and lucid and looked almost like a genius in her glasses at that chess board. But there was something else, and Nick couldn't quite place it. And then, when he was sitting across from her and she still didn't acknowledge his presence, he knew what it was. She had no passion. She was _too_ calm. As if there were no emotions left in her at all.

"You look like you're doing better."

And then, she glanced up at him, but only for a moment, her eyes as fickle as a pair of green hummingbirds flitting from flower to flower, as if he didn't matter to her at all. "Sure." There were no overtones of sarcasm, or hints at discordance, however, she wasn't enthusiastic either. It was almost as if she was just acknowledging his statement, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"I, uh, didn't know you wore glasses," Nick said, at an attempt at conversation.

"Neither did I," Alexa said, sliding her rook up. "Apparently when they were testing to see exactly how crazy I am, they discovered I had bad eyes."

"They look good on you," Nick told her.

Alexa's brow furrowed again as she stared at her board. Nick thought she was trying to work out a strategy, but the frown deepened, and her mouth twisted. Finally, she lashed out with her arm and knocked all of the pieces to the ground. But as quickly as it had come, her emotion dissipated. She looked up, and though her face was set, her eyes were accusing.

"Why did you come here?"

Nick stared at the chess pieces, black and white, scattered wantonly across the floor. "Would you believe me if I told you I missed you?"

"No."

Nick pursed his lips. "I was worried about you. About how you were doing in here."

"You need to stop worrying about me, Nick," Alexa said. "You'll never move on if you don't."

Nick shook his head. "I know, but… it's more than that, Alexa. I can't stop thinking about you until I know that you're… safe. Better."

"You still want to save me, don't you?" she said, flatly.

Nick paused, but then he nodded. And then, for reasons he didn't quite understand, he unexpectedly thought of Greg. He shook the thought from his mind.

"You already did."

Nick blinked. These words should have comforted him. They should have put his mind to rest and he should have felt the tension slide away. But it wasn't the words themselves that bothered Nick. It was the way in which she had said them. And he looked at her for a moment, this girl, this woman, sitting still at an empty chess table, looking at him through new lenses. And though he knew those eyes, those canopy eyes, and those bony shoulders and the purple scar across her cheek that mirrored his own, Nick realized that he didn't know her at all. Alexa was calm, composed, logical and controlled, but she wasn't real. She wasn't alive. When she had said those words, she should have reached out. She should have taken his hand. She should have smiled at him with grateful tears in her eyes, but this woman had done none of that. Alexa had confessed this grand truth to him, if it was truth to her at all, as if she were reporting what she had eaten for lunch.

So Nick asked the obvious question. "Are you happy here?"

Those skittish hummingbirds flickered again. It should have been an easy answer. But there was a pause. Her eyes moved to the corners, as if trying to recall the definition of happiness. And then, "Yes."

"Why?" Nick snapped, a little too quickly.

"What do you mean?" she inquired.

"What makes you happy here?" Nick explained. "What is it now that… gives your life meaning? Why, why are you happy?"

She cocked her head to the side and blinked at him blankly. And then, she gave him the worst possible answer. "Why not?"

His heart broke for her. As much as he hated the brutal animal that had left him burned and scarred and humiliated in that bedroom, he had loved the girl that it had devoured. He had seen counseling and treatment as a means of recovering her from the belly of the beast. He had seen himself as the lumberjack slicing open the wolf's stomach and pulling out Red Riding Hood. But now, as he stared at her shell, he realized that fairy tales never come true.

And as strange as it seemed, this revelation wove the wound in his soul shut, stitching it together with painful precision, in a way that Nick had never expected. He wondered if this was the last stage of grief, or the first.

He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. She slipped out of her own and one by one gingerly plucked the chess pieces off of the floor. Nick might as well not even have been in the room anymore for all she seemed to care. Nick took a few steps backwards. She neatly set up each chess piece on the board. Nick stopped in his retreat as he realized she wasn't starting a new game. It took him a moment to fully understand that she was recreating the game she'd had in progress with herself, before she had dashed the pieces to the floor in some rare burst of emotion that had burned out like a shooting star. Nick wasn't sure, but he could have sworn that not a piece was out of place. She remembered exactly where everything went. And then, she continued to play. Nick made his way to the door.

"Goodbye," he said to her over his shoulder.

She acknowledged him with a slight nod of her head, but her eyes never left the board. "Mm."

"I'll… see you 'round." It was a lie. Nick knew it was a lie. He wondered if she knew it was, too.

He exited into the observation room where he saw Sara turn to him. She was holding her elbows in her palms, her face almost as inscrutable as Alexa's.

"Smile," he begged her. "Cry. Do anything, just don't stand there like a statue."

And she responded heartily, her eyes widening and her mouth opening in a tiny gasp. "Nick…" she began. She slowly shook her head, then looked back at Alexa through the one-way mirror.

Nick's eyes fell on the pair of guards. "What happened to her?" he breathed.

"She's been stabilized," the guard who had escorted them there explained.

"Maybe…" Nick said. "She's also been dehumanized. Did you guys give her a lobotomy or something?"

"Meds, as I understand it," the other guard said. "You'd have to ask her doctor. They tried a few things before this stuff did what they wanted."

But Nick still didn't understand. "No. She said she was on medication before. She was _treated_ for this _before_, and she was _fine_. She led a normal life."

"She was treated for manic episodes," the guard said. "It's all in her file. This was a psychotic break. Different disease, and she was at higher risk for it with her history. But we've got her stabilized now. Dr. Platt says she might be one of their greatest success stories."

Nick suddenly felt very ill. His gaze drifted to Sara and he would always remember and be grateful for the waves of empathy breaking against the shores of her warm brown eyes. "Let's go home," he said to her.

Once in the car, they spent a full ten minutes in silence. It was much more tense than the ride over had been. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't know what I expected…"

Sara looked over at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she said, "I do. You expected her to be cured. You expected her magically fixed, and healthy and normal, as if none of those horrible things had ever happened to her. You expected to find a completely different person."

"I _did_ find a completely different person," Nick muttered, bitterly. "I found a corpse."

"You found a woman with a severe illness on heavy medication," Sara clarified. "You _wanted_ to find a woman who was never sick in the first place." Something about her voice was unexpectedly sharp, like a paper cut. She turned away from him and looked out the window. "Sometimes, it hurts to be healed."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Nick noted.

"I do." But she left it at that.

Nick debated whether or not to push her. He knew if their roles were reversed, she would never push him. He had just made the decision to stay silent, when she continued.

"My mother was in one of those places. I visited her once or twice. But I couldn't handle it. She wasn't crazy, but she wasn't my mom anymore, either…"

Nick threw a glance her way. She was still staring out of the window. "How is she now?"

"Hm?" Sara asked, as if she had lost the conversation.

"Your mother. How's she doing?"

"Oh… She's…" Sara didn't seem able to find the words. "The same." She was quiet for what seemed like minutes. "A part of me is still terrified that I'll end up like her."

"You?" Nick scoffed. "Not possible."

"You don't know—"

"You went crazy years ago," Nick interrupted with a lopsided smirk.

Sara tried not to smile as she folded her arms. "It's good to see you still have your humor."

"Greg helped me find it again."

"He's good at that."

Nick nodded in agreement, his eyes on the road. But his mind was still on Alexa. He thought about what she'd said, what everyone was telling him, about how he had to let her go. He wondered if he really could, now that he'd seen her, now that he knew that she was a lost cause. But it was difficult for Nick to give up on anyone, even someone as far gone as Alexa.

"Is it better?" he asked, not necessarily of Sara, but of anyone or anything in the universe that would listen. "The treatment, I mean. It's better than the disease, right? It has to be. Has to."

He felt something warm and smooth slide across the skin on the back of his hand. The black leather was sticky beneath his palms. It was then that he realized how tightly he'd been gripping the steering wheel. He relaxed his hold and looked down to see Sara's hand covering his.

"It is better," Sara tried to assure him.

Nick saw his exit. He took it. He felt his chest constrict and he knew he had to pull over. He rode into the parking lot of a fast food restaurant and leaned his forehead against the wheel. He took deep breaths and tried to focus, and soon found himself gasping for air. Fire erupted in his lungs. For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. His fingers tingled and he airily thought he shouldn't be clinging to the steering wheel like a life preserver.

He could feel Sara squeezing his shoulder and rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn't sure if she was speaking or not. The blood was flooding his ears. He was ready to burst, when he just let out a painful gasp, and the tears came with it. The second the seal on that dam broke, his body began to regulate itself again, and his breathing slowed as the tears spilled out of his eyes. He took a moment, taking slower, rattling breaths as he tried to calm down.

After giving him a second to relax, Sara whispered, "You can't save everyone."

"Not everyone…" Nick conceded. His voice cracked. "Sara, I just wanted to save _someone_."

An arm slid quickly around his shoulders and he felt her lips gently pressed against his temple. He knew that his words must have struck something in her, the way her hand was clutching his left shoulder, and how her breath trembled against his skin. But she didn't speak. She didn't lie and assure him that he saved people every day. She already knew that he wasn't a superhero. But Nick was just accepting that cold hard fact.

"Every day, we see bodies, and killers, and everything after the fact…" Nick began.

"I know," Sara breathed.

"And I just wanted to—"

"I know."

"It's always just a little too—"

"I _know_." She said it with finality, reminding him that he didn't have to explain his statement, because she already knew, and she did, too, because Sara Sidle knew everything. She saw the same cases that he saw, and she walked the same roads. But she had come to terms with it much more quickly than Nick, or at least, that's what he thought at the time. He didn't know what the future would bring. He didn't know that two years later, she would replay this conversation over and over again in her brain as she sliced her nametag off of her CSI vest and threw it in the trash. Sara Sidle knew everything. But she accepted nothing.

But Nick also didn't know that he would have his chance to save someone yet, or that the one he would save was holding him now.

As he regained his exposure and begged for strength, Nick took a deep breath. He sat up in his seat and leaned his head against the headrest as Sara withdrew her hand.

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No, I'll be OK," Nick assured her. He turned to her and smiled, as if she hadn't just witnessed him fall apart. "Where do you want to go for dinner?"

* * *

It was raining when Joanna King went to visit her daughter. She visited during free choice time, and there were other patients in the recreation room. Alexa's chessboard sat on the table, set up for a game, but completely abandoned. Instead, she had decided to sit on the ratted, worn gray couch and watch the rain slide down the windows, lined with bars. Joanna took a seat beside her and took Alexa's hand in hers. Alexa didn't seem to notice.

"I spoke with the doctor. He said you're doing much better now, sweetheart."

"Yes," Alexa replied, dully. Her glassy green eyes remained on the rivulets of water swimming down the windowpane. "I think I am."

"I'm glad. I think this is good for you. I know that Willow Springs was a sanctuary for you, of sorts. If it were up to me, I would have had you permanently move in there. But that's not what their program was about. And they said that you were fine. Clearly, they must have missed something. They must have. Because you were doing _so_ much better, Alexa. _So_ much."

And then, slowly, Alexa turned her head, and only her head, to cast her mother a quizzical look. "How do you know that?"

Joanna blinked. "I… what do you mean, sweetheart?"

"How do you know I was doing better?" Alexa inquired. "I haven't spoken to you in over ten years. How could you _possibly_ know how I was doing?"

"The letters…" Joanna breathed. "Once in a while, you sent letters. You said you owned your own business. You said that you were happy here."

"I never said here, I never said Vegas," Alexa continued.

"No," her mother confessed. "You conveniently left out any details that would help me locate you. And you never put a return address."

Slowly, Alexa shook her head. "You had no idea if I was doing better or not."

"The letters—"

"The letters told you that I was alive, and out of trouble," Alexa returned. "Which is what they were _meant_ to do. They never told you anything else, because that's all you wanted to know. That I had survived my childhood, and was living a quiet life somewhere, didn't even matter where, just so long as you weren't responsible for me anymore."

"That's not fair," Joanna snapped, biting back the hot sting of tears. "That's just not fair. Alexa, I will _always_ be responsible for you—"

"Oh, so suddenly you're the loving mother?" Alexa said, cocking her eyebrows. Joanna saw something rise within her, something deep and ancient, and barely there, but it was there. Alexa's voice was even, with the smallest hint of sarcasm. Joanna wondered exactly how much the medication muted her emotions.

Joanna's voice quavered as she spoke. "I have always loved you."

"So where have you been all these years?" Alexa returned. "Where were you when I needed you? Every day, I just wished that you would leave, get out _forever_, half the time terrified that maybe you really would. And you did. And I got what I wanted. I thought." She frowned, wrinkling her nose, then looked away from her mother out the window again. "Be careful what you wish for." She took a deep breath and gave a half shrug. "At least I don't cry anymore."

Joanna leaned forward, trying to catch her daughter's eye. The glint in it proved her last statement a lie. "They told me you were different now. Calmer. This anger you're feeling. Is it a side effect of the medication?"

"It's a side effect of having an absent mother and a devil for a father," Alexa replied evenly. He hand clenched on her knee. "You should go."

"I won't leave you alone again." Joanna reached out and took Alexa's hand. Her daughter yanked it away.

"You have to leave here eventually, unless you want to be committed," Alexa replied.

"You know what I mean," said Joanna.

A stout orderly dressed in green scrubs approached the pair of them with a glass of water and a small paper cup. He held them both out to Alexa. "Time for your medication, Alexa."

Alexa's eyes drifted lazily up to look at him, then took her pills and the paper cup. She dumped the contents of her cup into her mouth and gulped down the cup of water, handing their containers back to the orderly, who cocked his eyebrows, expectantly. Alexa took a deep breath and sighed, opening her mouth for inspection. Satisfied, the orderly moved on.

"So that was it," Joanna said. "You hadn't had your medication today. Perhaps this will calm you down."

"Perhaps it will," Alexa echoed.

Joanna rose to her feet, then kneeled in front of Alexa. "I'll visit as often as I can."

Alexa blinked at her. "I look forward to it." The words were flat, and Joanna couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or if she really meant them.

She decided to give her daughter the benefit of the doubt. "I love you, baby, and I always will, no matter what."

Alexa remained stoic, staring straight ahead as her mother stood up and headed for the door.

Alexa King stared at the rain. She heard the buzzer that indicated her mother was leaving the ward. "I love you, too, Mamma."

Recreation time ended. The patients were escorted to their rooms. The minute the door closed and locked behind her, Alexa leaned against it. She fiddled around with her tongue on the left side of her mouth, around her bottom jaw line, then spit out two small green pills. She slid them in the pocket of her jumpsuit, and they joined the two others from that morning.

"What are you going to do now?"

Alexa blinked and looked up. Clear as day, there he was, sitting on her bed.

"Wait. Fall. Die. I'm not sure."

"Stay here, with me, forever?"

"I'd rather live with _her_," Alexa spat, her hands crawling back into her hair.

"That's not true," he said, standing up. "I know that's not true."

"You don't," Alexa insisted. "You don't know me."

"I'm the stranger that knows you best," he replied with a sinister, sharp-toothed grin. "If you didn't want me, you wouldn't see me. You'd still take your medication. You wouldn't willingly be crazy."

"I'm not," Alexa cried, defensively. "I'm not crazy. And if I am, it's not because of you." She waved her index finger pointedly at him. "I'm _nothing_ because of you."

His grin stretched to his soulless eyes.

"That's not what I meant. I... I'm mixing up my words." She faltered and stared at the corner of her room, as if she could find the answers there, beneath a stone in a road, a road that led somewhere soft and safe and long burned to ashes. But when she turned over the stone, all she found were bugs and dirt.

He approached her now, touched her chin, tilted it upwards to force her to look at him. "I have that effect on people."

She pushed him away, screwing her eyes shut tight. "No. _No_. I will not lose my mind for _you_. I am who I am today because of circumstance and choice, but not because, never because of _you_."

He laughed a deep, low laugh. "You are exactly as I made you," he whispered.

"Oh, _fuck off_!" she spat. She raised her fists and launched herself at him. "I'll _kill_ you!"

He caught her wrists and she struggled. "I'm already dead."

"I'll do it again, kill you dead, send you down into the earth and the fire and the fear. Send you there so I can climb my way out of it and leave you behind!" She continued to bite and claw at him, but left no marks, drew no blood, and caused no panic.

"You can't leave me behind," he whispered calmly. She halted her attack, dropped her arms to the side and stared at him in a mixture of disgust and bafflement. He continued. "No amount of medication or therapy or prayer can do that. I'm deep inside you. Wriggling in your stomach like the worms that eat at my corpse. And that's why you stopped taking your pills. Because it was muted, it was dull, but it was still there. They ripped out the cancer and what was left? Nothing. It had already consumed you. We have a symbiotic relationship, you and I."

"It is you…" she whispered, stumbling backwards. "It has always been _you_. I never existed, not really. I was infected. I carry you in my blood. We're blood, and I carry you."

"Yes…" he whispered with sibilant pleasure. "Embrace it. Embrace me, 'Lexa."

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly uncertain. Slowly, she shook her head. "No, I…" But the protest caught in her throat like a lump of spoiled meat. She could taste the coppery tang of its blood coating her esophagus. She closed her eyes and tried to swallow. When she opened them again, he was behind the bars of her cage. The monster that had obliterated her and turned her into him.

She felt the rage and bile bubbling up again like a toxic acid in her gut and she shrieked with a murderous fire, launching herself at the bars, her knuckles clanging against them as she clawed at him behind them at the window. She smashed her fists against the hard glass, but it wouldn't make a dent.

After convincing herself that the glass was shatterproof, she turned away from the window, hot tears spilling down her face. And she saw them, the parade of perversions, the men she had brutalized, drifting before her pale and translucent and as grotesque as gargoyles. Burns, scars, and a deeper damage, something unseen in life and in their corpses, but their psychological wounds were made visible to her now. They twisted the men in unnatural ways into something barely human. The last in the line, a broad-shouldered Texan had a gaping hole in his chest, his ribs cut away as the purple organ, oozing with black was ripped out by his own hand and offered to her before it shriveled between his fingers. And just as if they had never lived at all, they faded away.

"You are more of a monster than I ever was," whispered his voice. She rose to her feet, looking for him. It had come from beneath her pillow. She threw the thing aside and revealed a keepsake her mother had smuggled in for her from her childhood. A small mirror from the dresser of her bedroom. He stared at her from beyond it with the devil's eyes, black as smoke, and she wondered if she stared into a portal, or if she was seeing her future. She looked out and saw him in the window again, looking right back at her, a slightly confused and frightened expression on her face. She looked back at the mirror. He blinked at her, his expression slowly fading until his face was a blank page, his black eyes resolved.

"I will kill you," they whispered at each other. She took the mirror and slammed it against the floor. She lifted one of the larger shards above her head and turned to the window to see he held a similar weapon. "Before you kill me."


	17. Epilogue: Sometimes Dead Is Better

_**Author's** **Note:**_ Sorry for the huge delay (almost a year) in getting this epilogue up. I have been working on other projects, namely another kidnapping story with Greg, so you can keep an eye out for that. I've also updated my Dead Man's Party series and added a new Nick/Greg quirky romance with Some Fantastic. I even did a Catherine/Warrick story (a pairing I never write). For a multimedia zombie apocalypse story (basically, with illustrations), see my livejournal - smilesinc. livejournal. [com]. All right, enough pimping, on with the epilogue. Hopefully this gives the closure you were looking for. Also, I realize this is actually the first scene in the entire story in which Dr. Robbins actually features. I hope this one scene makes up for his absence in the rest of the story.

Epilogue

At thirty-eight, Meagan Kretz was a fairly young District Attorney. She had only held the office for two years before she came across the Alexa King case. Still, she had seen her fair share of odd cases in her career as a prosecutor. Particularly striking was the Paul Millander case six years previously. But there was something about Alexa King's case that burrowed its way beneath her skin. It may have been because this woman had not only targeted a respected member of the LVPD, but also fellow lawyer. Even if he was a public defender, Meagan knew Lincoln Meyer had probably shared her passion for law and justice. Or maybe it was because Alexa was a woman, and a small one at that, who had somehow managed to manipulate four different men into their own torture and murder. Or perhaps it was the sexual assault aspect of the case, as women assaulting men was a rare and morbidly fascinating occurrence to her.

Either way, when Meagan received a call from the facility which was keeping and treating King in the very early hours of Sunday morning, she immediately swung her legs out of bed and started putting on her coat. Now, she stood with Dr. Albert Robbins, who was shaking his head at her corpse and checking something off on his clipboard.

"Rehabilitated my ass…" he muttered.

Meagan blinked. "These treatments often take time. Some people can't wait for them to work."

"It's not that," Dr. Robbins said. "She was supposedly on a strict medication regimen. I didn't find a trace of the stuff in her system. She was squirreling them away somewhere, probably."

"Some people can't be cured," Meagan reasoned. "Or don't want to be."

Dr. Robbins shook his head again. "Somehow, I don't think that was her problem. Prison hospitals are more interested in keeping their patients docile than actually treating them."

"You're saying the system failed her?" Meagan asked.

"I'm not saying anything," Dr. Robbins insisted. "Officially, I rule this a suicide." He handed her his clipboard.

She took it, and changed the subject. "Graveyard take this one?"

"No need," Dr. Robbins said. "The Institute had it covered. They have procedures in place for this. No, graveyard's on other cases tonight."

Meagan nodded. "Well, I guess this saves the city some money on a trial."

"Doesn't save me any grief, though," Dr. Robbins grumbled. "Or Nick."

Meagan drummed her fingers against the clipboard twice. "I haven't called Jim Brass yet, either."

Dr. Robbins looked down at the body on his table, then pulled the sheet up to cover her face. "So don't."

"What?"

"Don't tell him," he said, turning around. "The mother's already been in to see the body. She was upset, but not surprised. I can release it to her tomorrow morning, and then Alexa King is gone again and out of our lives, as well she should be."

"That's not your decision to make," Meagan said.

"No, it's yours," Dr. Robbins agreed. "As District Attorney, it's your prerogative to determine who needs to be officially notified."

"They'll find out eventually," Meagan said. "I bet they're already planning something for the news."

For a moment, Dr. Robbins looked much older than his years. Meagan didn't know him that well, but she could tell that he cared about the CSI night shift staff. It was clear he just wished this would all go away.

"I'll do it," he said after a moment.

Meagan blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll tell Brass," Dr. Robbins explained. "And Grissom. And everyone else will learn from there."

Meagan smiled warmly at him. She hated doing notifications, even when it was about someone as notoriously damaged as Alexa King. It's one reason why she chose law school instead of the police academy. She knew she could never be a detective. "Thanks," she said.

"Like I said," Dr. Robbins began, looking down at the body on his table covered by the sheet. "Doesn't save me any grief."

* * *

"Thanks," Greg said blankly into his phone. He held it against his ear for a moment, as if there were more to hear, then slowly lowered it and clicked it shut, his eyes fixed straight ahead.. He was right outside of the crime lab and he stared at the glass doors in front of him. He considered walking through them, but out of instinct turned to look across the street at the diner. His eyes scanned the parking lot. He turned and started walking, then jogging, pausing only to check for oncoming cars before sprinting across the street and into the diner. He pushed through the doors so fast, he had to catch the back of a booth seat to help him turn and stopped.

Nick was staring at him, his hands surrounding a porcelain mug of coffee. Sara, who was sitting across from Nick, turned in her seat. Greg noticed that her hand was resting on top of her cell phone, next to her plate of toast.

"Grissom told me," he told them, to explain his haste. "I just thought…"

And then, Nick smiled. It was tired, and his eyes were dull, but the hint of the person he used to be shone brighter than Greg had seen it since the abduction. He closed his eyes and jerked his head to his right as he moved closer towards the window on his left. Greg took the message and slid into the booth beside him. Sara watched him with her wide brown eyes and inscrutable expression as she placed her cell phone in her purse. Greg's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his mouth half-open, trying in vain to read her, but Sara Sidle was the same closed book she always was. So instead, he turned to Nick, who was lifting the mug to his mouth, his strange smile still in place. Greg didn't understand it.

"Are you OK?"

The smile grew as he closed his eyes. He lowered the mug from his lips and turned to Greg. "It's all right, Greg."

"How?" Greg asked. "How is it all right? I'll never understand why you felt the way you do about her, but I know that you cared. You're… not upset?"

Nick's smile faded a little as he looked away again. He looked down at his coffee, then up at Sara. Greg looked between them both, feeling like he had missed out on some secret inside joke. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"Nick?"

He let out a tired sigh and pushed his mug away. "Did you ever see that Stephen King movie, Pet Sematary?"

This was an odd question, although digging into the back of his mind, Greg was able to nod, slowly. "A million years ago. Refresh my memory?"

"People die," Nick explains. "And the ones left alive… they can't let go. But the old man in the movie's right, Greg. Sometimes… dead is better."

_Sometimes, dead is better_. Greg mulled this axiom over in his mind. His eyes connected with Sara's. She saw his confusion.

"She was already lost to the world, Greg. There's nothing anyone could have done for her at that point."

"She was already gone…" Nick added, quietly. And then, his smile returned. "She's not in pain anymore."

Greg finally understood. He stared at the table. The three sat in silence. But it wasn't awkward, or distant, or depressing. The silence brought them closer. The silence was friendly, and curled around them like a cat, purring, slowing their rapidly beating hearts and reminding them that it was a new day, and the night was over.


End file.
